


If My Heart Was A Compass

by santana-lopez (nightshifted)



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-29
Updated: 2011-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-21 22:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/230699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshifted/pseuds/santana-lopez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana Lopez has a plan. A three-point plan. A really fucking efficient three-point plan that's going to get her the hell out of Ohio. This is her story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Santana Lopez has it all figured out.

High school is all about appearances and first impressions. On day one, the entire hierarchy for the next four years is inked in, and there's very little anyone can do to change it. Moving down the pyramid is easy; moving up is nearly impossible. One shot is all anyone gets, and Santana makes damn sure her shot lands her at the top of the food chain.

McKinley High is a means to an end. Four years, and she'll be out of this stupid cow town with a full ride to some prestigious school out of state and rid herself of the stench of Lima once and for all. But one misstep can mean the difference between spending those years parting the hallways with a swagger or having a slushie in the face every morning, and Santana knows exactly which scenario she wants.

To get there, she has a three-point plan.

One: Become a Cheerio. And not one of the ones prancing around on the ground, either. One of the ones being tossed in the air. One of the ones that Coach cannot easily dispose. She knows what the slutty little uniform is worth in high school currency. Grab captaincy if possible; otherwise, befriend the stupid undeserving whore who nabs that role.

Two: Shovel shit for the people above her; dump shit on the people below her. In short, do not disturb the natural order of the high school chain of command. She just has to make sure there are a lot less people above her than below her. Piece of cake, really. She's got harmless manipulation down to an art form, and she's never had a problem stomping on the losers who end up at the bottom of the pile.

Three: Don't be afraid to play a little dirty. Nobody ever gets to the top by being a squeaky-clean goody two-shoes. Morals are for pussies. The word 'propriety' isn't even in Santana's vocabulary.

First week of school, she puts her plan to action.

She earns an invitation to Cheerios by timing a back flip right as Sue Sylvester walks past her locker. Not exactly the most subtle thing she's ever done, but Coach Sylvester insults her sloppy acrobatics, applauds her lack of shame and recruits her.

Halfway through the year, the captain of the Cheerios, a bitchy little senior with a scratchy voice and an affinity for sticking her fingers down her throat, develops a nasty thyroid problem, and her legs morph into giant hams. Coach picks eager-eyed freshman Quinn Fabray to replace her, and Santana sucks it up and spends the rest of the year currying favor from the blonde, even though she makes Santana want to light herself on fire sometimes.

But Santana knows the value of sacrifice, and if keeping peace with a dumb prude like Quinn means that Santana is treated like royalty for the rest of her high school existence, so be it.

Nowhere in her perfect blueprint is there any mention of Glee Club. Or even Brittany.

\--

The first time Santana has sex with Brittany, she's fifteen. It's not even really sex, not in any way Santana's ever known, but one of them comes, so that counts, right?

It's the summer after freshman year, and Santana's been quote-unquote dating Puck since Quinn had decided to make her life one big fucking cliché by going after the quarterback of the football team and asking that Santana and Brittany follow her lead, probably so all six of them can move to a convent to serve the Lord. And never ever have sex for the rest of their lives. Bullshit.

Santana doesn't take orders from _anyone_ , unless they've got a rung of the social ladder in their back pocket that Santana hasn't climbed yet.

Puck, though. Puck just kind of happens, and Quinn is ecstatic, which almost makes Santana dump him just to be a spiteful bitch. But Puck puts up with Santana's shit, matches her quip for quip, and says all the wrong things to the right people. Exactly Santana's kind of guy, so she keeps him around. Besides, he isn't exactly an eyesore.

Anyway, summer after freshman year. Puck's mom takes Puck's sister up to Cleveland for the weekend – something about culturing her before it's too late, with a nasty glare in Puck's direction. Santana had just spent ten minutes explaining to Puck that a year-end bonus is _not_ "kinda like" when you end a Super Mario Bros level with the last digit of the timer on a six – idiot – so it's not like Puck's mom is entirely misguided in her passive aggressive accusations.

With his family out of town, Puck throws a house party.

The whole thing is basically a gathering of football players and cheerleaders and a reason for members of the former group to try to get into the pants of members of the latter group, but whatever. Santana knows her place.

She shows up at Puck's with Brittany—late, because Brittany had spent over an hour in Santana's bathroom doing god knows what. Right before they'd left though, Santana had gotten a peek at an elaborate lipstick drawing on her mirror of a duck sitting on a rainbow, so _that_ , most likely. Aside from making Santana wonder what the hell Brittany was doing with green lipstick, the artistic venture had made them late. But Santana had been in no rush, and it's Brittany, so she's not really mad. Besides, showing up to parties early is like wearing a shirt that says, 'Hey, look at me! I'm an eager little turd!' and that's not Santana's style.

And anyway, it's Puck, for god's sake, not the freaking Dalai Lama—not that Santana would care to show up on time to listen to some hippie yak about oppression or some other shit, but the point stands.

Puck sweeps Brittany and Santana inside and immediately separates them, pulling Santana away. She tastes the heavy alcohol vapors in his breath when he kisses her, and his hands are not at all shy about where they want to be.

Santana shoves him away and slaps him upside the head. "You little delinquent, keep your paws to yourself."

But Puck is either too drunk or too horny to be deterred by Santana's fist. He latches his lips to Santana's neck, and Santana actually does get momentarily distracted. Puck is nothing if not experienced at what he does, and it's not like a little bit of aggression isn't a turn-on for her. Santana scans the room for Brittany but doesn't catch any trace of the leggy blonde. Figuring Brittany had gone off in search of her own hookup, Santana lets Puck take her to his bedroom.

Puck's pretty good in the sack, most of the time. But tonight, he performs like an energizer bunny whose batteries had been swapped out for counterfeits: he runs out of juice embarrassingly quickly. Worse, as soon as he gets his, he passes out, leaving Santana frustratingly unsatisfied.

"Shit," Santana curses, shoving Puck's half-dressed body off her. She readjusts her Cheerios uniform. She'd barely even gotten naked. "Fuck you, Puck," she adds for good measure, even though Puck is out cold.

After making sure Puck's still breathing – she's a little apathetic, not a full-blown sociopath – Santana stumbles back downstairs in search of alcohol. Instead, she finds Quinn sucking face with Finn, and _ugh_ , definitely not enough alcohol in her system.

She downs a few drinks and hangs around a little longer, but she still can't find Brittany and that pisses her off. An inebriated Matt is trying to make a pass at her, and she starts to go along with it, but she underestimates how pissed she really is; before Matt even manages to slip his hand under her shirt, she shoves him away and storms off.

She makes one last sweep of Puck's house for Brittany and comes up empty-handed. She leaves, head pounding.

She doesn't live too far from Puck, thankfully, which is definitely something Santana had taken into consideration when she'd started having sex with him. Nobody can accuse her of not being thorough when it comes to things like convenience.

Santana's house is empty when she steps inside. No surprise there. She drags herself to the bathroom and jumps in the shower. The warm stream of water that hits her skin actually does make her feel a little better, but there's an ache between her legs that she can't alleviate. She's going to kill that stupid mohawked son of a bitch.

She shuts off the water and steps out, dripping everywhere. After toweling herself off and dressing in a t-shirt and boyshorts, she brushes her teeth and blow-dries her hair.

Santana moves back to her room and climbs under the covers. She's still pissed, mostly at Puck for being such a douchebag, but also at Brittany for disappearing off somewhere, probably with some guy who's only thinking about getting his rocks off and not appreciating Brittany's long, slender legs enough. But whatever, it's not like Santana gives a shit.

Santana has just enough alcohol in her to feel sleepy, and her eyelids begin to flutter. She's still a little worked up, but nothing she's never dealt with before, and sleep always helps. As she's about to nod off, one side of her bed dips gently, and a warm body presses against her back. Brittany. Santana hadn't even heard the front door.

They do this sometimes. Well, okay, a lot. They do this a lot.

It had started out innocently enough. A few sleepovers here and there; you know, the things that neighbors-slash-best friends are supposed to do. But Brittany… Brittany had gotten attached. She'd gotten attached to Santana's bed, and Santana. And when ten-year-old Brittany wanted something, she took the easiest route to it. In this case, that happened to be Brittany sneaking out of her own home in the dead of night, running three houses down the street to Santana's, and curling under Santana's covers with her.

The first few times, Brittany had gotten scolded for it, and security had been tightened under her roof, but she'd come up with more and more elaborate escape plans, and eventually, her parents decided that the safest way to address the issue was to just let her go, granted that Santana's parents approved, which they did. That was when Santana's parents were still around, and there's a memory Santana doesn't like rehashing.

Either way, sleep was all it was, and Santana never minded curling up next to a warm body, even if Brittany would sometimes hog all the sheets or snore loudly if she was really drained. At least now, it keeps from Santana's house from feeling so empty.

After all these years, Brittany still finds herself in Santana's bed, and Santana still finds herself wanting it.

"Hey, San," Brittany murmurs, snuggling up to Santana. "You smell good," she adds.

The truth is, Brittany doesn't smell so good, and Santana almost tells her exactly that. She smells like sweat – hers and someone else's – and ugh, Santana squeezes her eyes shut at the thought. Brittany doesn't smell like alcohol though, or anything else. She doesn't even smell like she'd had sex. Just sweat.

"Where the hell were you all night?" Santana snaps.

Brittany doesn't flinch, her arms wrapping around Santana's midsection. "Dancing."

Santana makes a face that Brittany cannot see. "What?"

"Dancing." Brittany's shoulders shift up and down rhythmically, and Santana feels it against her back. "You know."

Santana spins around to face her. "What the fuck, by yourself?"

Brittany blinks. "No, with Mike. We snuck into a closed dance studio. It was awesome."

"Chang?" Santana asks, scrunching up her face. "He _dances_?"

"Yeah, but he told me not to tell anyone." Brittany buries her face into Santana's hair, and her next words are muffled. "I only told you because you're my favorite."

Santana turns back around, settling into Brittany's arms. "Gee, thanks," she mutters.

"You're kinda bitchy tonight, Santana," Brittany says unapologetically. "Puck?"

Santana groans. "He's an asshole. He got me all worked up and then passed out. I'm horny as fuck."

A minute passes, and Brittany begins feeling around under the covers for Santana's hand. Warm fingers wrap firmly around Santana's wrist.

Alarmed, Santana turns her head. "What are you doing?"

"Relax," Brittany breathes, rolling Santana to her back.

Brittany guides Santana's hand down over the plane of her abdomen and under the waistband of her boyshorts. She pushes further, and when Santana's fingertips touch her own clit, she snaps her hand back, shaking away Brittany's grip.

"Britt, what the hell?"

Brittany shrugs. "It'll make you feel better."

"Yeah," Santana says in exasperation, "because I'll be fucking masturbating."

At Santana's tone, Brittany deflates. "I was just trying to help," she says in a tiny voice.

Santana sighs, and her head starts to hurt again. She hates upsetting Brittany, because most of the time, Brittany is just being sweet and Santana is being an ass. It's not like they don't share all the juicy details of their sex lives with each other. So like, short of actually _watching_ Santana having sex, Brittany probably has a good idea of what that looks like anyway. And what the hell, Brittany's seen her in her birthday suit before. No big deal.

Santana's hand nudges Brittany's. "Maybe this'll work. Let's try again, okay? I'm sorry."

Brittany grins real wide and grabs Santana's hand again, guiding it back under her underwear. And Santana… gets kind of nervous? She's never been nervous during sex, not even the first time, so it's a bit unnerving that her palms sweat a little when it's just Brittany, and it's not even really sex.

Brittany guides the tips of Santana's fingers across moist skin, and Santana dampens a moan at the back of her throat. Brittany smiles, gripping Santana's hand tighter to keep her fingers straight. Gently, she pushes two of Santana's fingers in, and Santana grunts, head pressing back against her pillow as her hips rise impulsively. Brittany holds Santana's hand firmly and guides it in and out slowly, almost methodically.

Santana curses under her breath, eyes closed and cheeks hot. The pressure builds up quickly, almost pathetically so, and her entire body is reacting to Brittany's movements.

"San," Brittany says softly, her breath ghosting across Santana's cheek.

Santana keeps her eyes shut, and she feels the press of Brittany's lips against hers. She's pretty sure that's not part of the plan, but Brittany is kissing her and she's kissing back, soft and slow at first, then quicker, more desperate, as Brittany thrusts to a faster beat. Santana groans, the most exhilarating waves of pleasure rushing through her, and she's trying to hang on a little longer, but a thumb – not Santana's – brushes against her clit, and Santana comes undone, her body shuddering violently around her own fingers. They feel like Brittany's.

Instinctively, Santana reaches for Brittany, and the blonde scoots closer to let Santana bury her face into the crook of her neck. Brittany still smells like sweat, but now so does Santana, and they both smell like they'd had sex.

"Holy shit, Brittany," Santana manages to croak, hips bucking as she rides herself down.

Brittany's movements slow to a stop, but she doesn't loosen her grip around Santana's hand. Santana's body slackens, gratifyingly spent. As gently as she'd pushed them in, Brittany pulls Santana's fingers out, and Santana whimpers—she fucking _whimpers_.

"See?" Brittany murmurs with a small but proud smile. "I told you."

\--

Brittany and Santana spend the rest of the summer having not-sex. It's better than any sex Santana's ever had, even when Puck's batteries are working.

She tears Puck a new one for pulling that stunt, by the way. Calls him an asshole and everything. Makes it look good. It manages to guilt-trip Puck into trying harder, which is great and all, but he's still not as good as Brittany's hand guiding hers.

Which is kind of messed up, but whatever. She gets it enough from Brittany to not give a shit how hard Puck tries. It's kind of like eating steak nearly every damn night, and being served meatballs for lunch two or three times a week. Most people would eat the meatballs anyway, and they wouldn't even care if some days, the meatballs are a little stale, or undercooked, or otherwise unsatisfactory, because there'll always be steak later, and let it be understood: it's some damn delicious steak. All in the perspective, really.

What she's doing with Brittany, it's not really sex. It's like… assisted masturbation. There's a difference. If two people are sharing a plate of nachos, that's eating. But if one person is holding another person's hand, helping him move it back and forth between the plate and his mouth, that's assisted eating.

The really weird part is that most of the time, Santana prefers feeding over eating. The nachos are good and everything, but watching someone else eat nachos is even better.

Shit, Santana is hungry, and this analogy is getting way out of hand.

What she means is this: when she has her hand on Brittany's, guiding her, and Brittany is making breathy little sounds and looking at her with smoky blue eyes like she's the only person in the whole damn world who matters, it makes Santana feel good. Like, _feel good_ feel good, even though it's supposed to be about Brittany, so that's kind of confusing.

Brittany… she likes to embellish. She probably doesn't even do it on purpose, but when she's close, she'll grab Santana's shoulder, or play with her hair, or palm one of Santana's boobs just because she can. And Santana is a total sucker for stuff like that, so she _reacts_ to it. She'll plant a trail of kisses along Brittany's neck, or press their foreheads together, or trap one of Brittany's legs between her own. Because she wants it to be good for Brittany, and knowing Brittany's generosity, the feeling is almost certainly mutual.

By the end of summer, the assisted masturbation thing is happening at the same time. So like, Santana assists Brittany, and Brittany assists Santana, except, simultaneously.

It's a messy tangle of limbs the first time, but with practice, they get pretty efficient at it. Initially, saved time is cited as a reason, but it quickly becomes obvious that they both prefer just doing it twice as many times, which, you know, is still a pretty good reason.

Santana doesn't even try to argue that it's mutual assisted masturbation, or some dumb shit like that. She's not in denial or anything.

Santana Lopez is having sex with her best friend.

What they do is far from conventional, but it's not like, anal, so whatever.

They never really talk about what it means. It just becomes another thing the two of them do together, like cheerleading, or the pinky thing.

\--

Santana joins Glee during sophomore year because of Quinn. Stupid bitch. If she'd just let Finn touch her boobs under the bra or something, she wouldn't have to worry about him running off with some ankle-biter with a nose the size of a small African country.

But no. Quinn has to go and be the only person in the celibacy club who is actually celibate. Other than Finn, but he's a dumbass too. Santana only joins because Brittany does, and Santana's pretty sure Brittany only joins because she thinks it's a club for famous people.

So because of Quinn's refusal to put out and Coach Sylvester's hatred of curly metrosexual hair, Santana gets roped into the second gayest thing in the entire school. The first is that kid who Puck tosses into the dumpsters every morning. She's pretty sure he's in Glee too, which only proves her point. Glee Club is like, super gay.

At first, the only thing that makes everything worth it is Brittany's dancing. Santana had always thought that all those times Brittany snuck off with Mike was a bigger waste of time than trying to remove one of Quinn's ten chastity belts, but the first time she sees Brittany dance? Santana's heart does a little flip, and what the hell. They'd done a ton of choreography for Cheerios, and yeah, Brittany can move, but Santana's never seen Brittany move quite like _that_. It's all in the hips, or something.

It just gives Santana more fodder for when they're together, not that she needs it. Brittany does plenty enough to work her up, and Santana comes just fine without the image of Brittany thrusting her hips to the beat and twirling all around the room and making Santana feel like she's caught in a fucking cyclone.

What starts out as a way to stay in Coach Sylvester's good graces quickly becomes an excuse to watch Brittany dance. And the performing thing turns out to be kind of fun. Santana's awesome at it too, not that that's a surprise.

What is a surprise: Quinn gets knocked up.

The irony there is thicker than that crap Mr. Schuester puts in his hair. Quinn, the president of that dumbass celibacy club. Ho-ly shit, best news of Santana's life.

Or it is until one afternoon, a few days after Coach Sylvester finally kicks Quinn off the Cheerios. Santana is at Puck's, and they're messing around some on his couch, but Puck's not really into it. He hasn't been into it for like, two weeks, which is okay because she's got Brittany, but she doesn't want to be losing her touch with the dick or anything.

Santana shoves Puck a little. "What's the matter with you?"

Puck absentmindedly palms Santana's thigh. "Nothing, babe."

She pushes his hand away. "You're tighter than Quinn Fabray's ass right now." Puck raises an eyebrow at that, and Santana makes a face. "Don't be gross."

"It's just—" Puck sighs and leans back a little against the couch. "This conversation doesn't leave this room, got it?"

"You know me."

Puck runs a hand through his mohawk. "This whole baby business—it's totally messing with my head. All Finn ever does is whine like a little bitch, like that's going to help pay the hospital bills. I'm sick of it. He needs to man up and find a way to take care of Quinn and the baby."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Have you met the Fabrays? They're uptight as hell. As soon as they get their heads out of their liquor cabinet long enough to figure out that it's not the drier's fault Quinn can't fit into any of her pants anymore, they're going to hold a shotgun to that doofus Finn's head and force him to get hitched to their precious little snowflake. Then you won't have to lose sleep over this stupid shit."

Puck clutches his head. "The baby's not even Finn's," he exhales.

"What?"

Puck sits up so suddenly that Santana nearly slides off his lap. "I said, I'm the one who knocked Quinn up."

Santana only stares. "Well shit, Puck."

"But Quinn thinks Finn'll be a better dad than me," Puck continues. "It's bullshit!"

"You got Quinn _pregnant_?" Santana's head actually starts to spin a little. "Are you a fucking idiot?"

"I didn't mean to!"

"I am about to clock you in the face," Santana fumes.

"Look, I'm sorry I messed around on you or whatever, okay? But I kind of have bigger problems here."

"I'm not pissed about that," Santana dismisses, which is actually mostly true. She's pissed that it's Quinn, always getting up in her shit, but at this point, she and Puck share an understanding about the nature of their relationship. That doesn't change. Santana's just not stupid enough to let Matt or whoever knock her up. "I'm pissed," she continues, "because you royally fucked up and now you're going to be tied to Fabray for the rest of your life." She stares at Puck. "Well, what the hell are you going to do?"

"I don't fucking know."

Santana curses, trying to sort everything out in her head. "Maybe you should just let the stupid bitch convince Finn it's his. That way, neither of us has to deal with her shit."

"It's _my_ kid," Puck emphasizes, indignant. To Santana's surprise, Puck actually deflates. "I don't want to be a deadbeat dad."

There's something about Puck. Like yeah, he's always going on about wanting snatch and fooling around with milfs, but Santana's convinced he's actually a pretty decent guy. Not that he should be responsible for a kid's life, but then neither should Finnkenstein, and she's pissed on Puck's behalf that Quinn would lie about that. It's way messed up.

Santana stops having sex with Puck, which has been totally mediocre anyway, and Puck cools his Puckasaurus act for a little while to prove to Quinn that he'd be a good dad. Santana's decent-guy theory? Actually pans out a little. And anyway, there's no way Quinn's going to pick Puck unless Finn jams his toe into his brain trying to dance or something, so Santana doesn't interfere.

She does tell Brittany though, because she tells Brittany everything.

Brittany's reaction is, "I miss Quinn."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, I don't."

"She didn't mean to steal your boyfriend," Brittany offers.

"Why does everyone think that's why I'm pissed? Puck and I aren't even dating."

"Would you be mad," Brittany asks thoughtfully, "if I had sex with Quinn?"

Santana snorts. "Yeah, right. She'd probably whine the whole time about her back being sore or her baby falling out."

"Would you though?" Brittany presses.

"Sleep with Quinn?" Santana asks, her face knitting up in disgust.

Brittany smiles. "No, be mad if I did."

Santana considers it for a moment. Hell yeah, she'd be furious. She doesn't really want to think about Brittany sleeping with _anyone_ , but least of all Quinn. Santana's protective of Brittany, just like she's protective of Puck, but it's a different kind of anger that boils inside her when she thinks about Brittany with someone else. It's a rage born out of a desire to keep Brittany hers, and only hers. Thinking about stuff like that only makes Santana's chest hurt though, so she stops doing it.

"Yeah, I guess I'd probably be mad if you slept with Quinn," Santana finally answers.

Brittany gives her a pointed look. "There you go," she says with a proud smile, like she's just figured out the meaning of life. "You're mad because Quinn slept with Puck while you were also sleeping with Puck."

"It's not like that, Britt. Maybe at the beginning we tried to make it work, but Puck is still Puck, you know? We're in high school. Sex with him is just that: sex. Frankly, I'd rather drag him around and beat up some dweebs with him. He's got a killer left hook."

Brittany blinks. "If you're not mad that Puck slept with Quinn, why would you be mad if I did?"

"It's different with you," Santana explains, feeling a little foolish for the way her pulse picks up. "You're… a girl," she adds lamely.

"So's Quinn," Brittany points out.

"Exactly, so she can't knock you up," Santana hand-waves, her cheeks hot. "Look, I'm mad because Quinn's been lying through her teeth since day one. That's all."

Brittany is quiet for a moment, then, "We've been friends with Quinn for a long time. Since the first day of middle school, remember?"

"No, _you've_ been friends with her since the first day of middle school," Santana amends. "I only started talking to her last year because she made captain of the Cheerios. I hated her guts. You know that."

Brittany tilts her head. "San, she probably really needs a friend right now."

"What she needs is looser pants and a visit to the sterilization clinic," Santana quips, deflecting.

"We can take her shopping for new clothes," Brittany suggests, working around Santana's malice.

Santana sighs. "No, okay, Britt? I wasn't her friend before and I don't want to be her friend now."

Brittany resigns. Actually, it's more like Brittany gets distracted by a bird flying past Santana's window, but she doesn't bring up Quinn again for the rest of the night, so Santana counts it as a victory.

\--

Sectionals is approaching, and Mr. Schuester pairs the members of Glee up and makes them sing ballads to each other.

Puck gets Mercedes, not that it makes a difference. Santana's pretty sure Puck would find a way to slack off even if he's paired with Neil Diamond himself.

Artie gets Quinn. Santana cannot _wait_.

Finn gets Kurt. She doesn't even bother stifling her laughter. Fucking priceless.

Tina gets Mike, and isn't that like, incest? (She learns much later that they're not actually related, but Santana pretty much spends three quarters of her high school life thinking they're half-siblings or cousins or something. All Asians look the same to her.)

Santana pulls Brittany's name out of Mr. Schue's hat, and she's pretty pleased about that. Because Rachel and Mr. Schue are the only other options, and honestly, she'd rip out her own throat before she'd sing a love song to Rachel fucking Berry.

That night, Santana shuffles through her iTunes library with Brittany over her shoulder.

"Can we sing Britney Spears? She has like, a ton of ballads."

Santana's reply is a firm, "No."

Brittany nuzzles into Santana's neck. "Why not?"

"Because all she does is sing about being dumped. It's depressing."

"What about _I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman_? That's my favorite."

"That one just makes us sound like trannies."

They end up choosing Aerosmith's _I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_. Or Santana does, and Brittany will pretty much agree to anything that Santana wants. It's kind of comforting.

And here's the thing. Santana's got a decent voice. She's not into belting out show tunes, and she doesn't spend every waking moment of her life vomiting music notes out of her mouth like _some_ people, but she can totally take, say… Quinn in a sing-off, if that weren't like, completely lame.

So when she opens her mouth and the sound carries across the room without eleven other voices layered over it, she actually holds her own. It seems to excite Brittany, but then again, a lot of things excite Brittany. Santana's still pleased.

They practice a bit, make out a little – okay, a lot – and when they finally climb into bed hours later, Brittany is still humming the tune. She starts affectionately playing with Santana's hair.

"You've got a really pretty voice, you know," Brittany says, pressing a kiss to Santana's throat.

Santana tilts her head. "You think so?"

"Yeah," Brittany nods, eyes earnest. "You should ask Mr. Schue to give you a solo."

Santana grimaces. "No way."

"Why not?" Brittany asks quietly.

Santana rolls her eyes. "Because singing lead in a show choir is for queers."

"We sing," Brittany points out.

"Yeah, background," Santana counters. "That's different. I'm not interested in making a fool of myself like Man-Hands."

"She sounds good though." Brittany's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "I'm just saying, Santana. You sound really good too."

"I'll think about it, okay?" Santana promises.

"Okay." Brittany smiles. "Will you sing to me?"

And Santana cannot ever say no to Brittany when she's lying there all genuine and sweet and crazy beautiful, so Santana takes a breath and hits the notes as well as she can.

" _Don't want to close my eyes; don't want to fall asleep, 'cause I'd miss you, babe, and I don't want to miss a thing…_ "

Brittany watches her the whole time, looking all thrilled and impressed. Santana thinks she probably wears a similar expression herself when she watches Brittany dance.

They don't actually end up getting to perform their ballad, because Finn and Quinn need their support, which, ugh, Santana kind of seethes at the idea. She doesn't get it. Puck spills to Mercedes, and Mercedes blabs to Kurt and Tina, and Artie finds out too – probably by being attached to Tina's hip – and _none_ of them thinks Finn deserves to know the truth. What the hell? Santana keeps her mouth shut because Puck had asked her to and her loyalties are with him, but she'd always figured as soon as one of the others finds out, the shit'd hit the fan.

But no. They decide to _sing_ , like that'll magically make Quinn's baby not pop out with a giant Jew nose.

Santana only puts on a smile because Brittany asks her to be nice.


	2. Chapter 2

Santana doesn't see much of Puck until a week later, when she hears about Quinn wanting to take him for a test drive, and oh no the blonde bimbo does _not_ get to do that. Puck is Santana's friend, okay? And if Quinn's actually considering dragging Puck down with her, then she'll have to go through Santana first.

Because when the Fabrays find out that Puck's a Jew? It's going to be the Holocaust all over again, and Santana is not cool with Puck getting shit from Quinn's psycho parents. So Santana draws up a plan.

Friday night, _babysitting_ night, Brittany is painting her toenails on the floor of Santana's room. Santana is stretched out along the length of her bed, thumbs tapping away at her phone.

"What're you doing?" Brittany asks as she admires her big toe.

"Texting Puck," Santana replies, clicking send.

"Oh." Brittany starts brushing nail polish on her second toe. "I thought you broke up with him."

Santana's phone vibrates. "I did."

"Oh," Brittany repeats.

Santana skims over Puck's text, then fiddles with her phone. "It doesn't mean anything, okay?" she says, a little defensive, and an unfamiliar urge to reassure creeps into the pit of her stomach. "I'm just making sure Puck doesn't get himself killed."

"I know," Brittany replies, lifting her foot and wiggling her toes.

Santana sits up and puts her phone down, just as it vibrates again. "I'll stop if you want?" she offers. "I'm getting kind of bored anyway."

Brittany looks up then, eyes crystal blue. "Santana," she says seriously. "It's okay."

Santana's chest tightens, and she picks up her phone long enough to turn it to silent. She's played that game long enough, and Puck really was kind of boring her. She's like, not at all turned on, probably because Puck's gone soft, and in more ways than one.

But the truth is, ever since she'd gotten a taste of Brittany, everything else sort of pales in comparison. It sucks sometimes, like when she's trying to get off with a guy and all she can think about is Brittany's mouth and Brittany's hands pushing hers and the flush across Brittany's skin when she particularly likes what's happening. But mostly, it's worth it. It's worth it because of the way Brittany looks at her and touches her and _wants_ her. She's never had someone want her as unconditionally as Brittany does.

Santana had thought that the novelty would fade over time, but it's only gotten worse. Or like, better, depending on whether you're talking about the situation or the sex.

Santana slides off her bed and moves to sit behind Brittany, scooting close so that her stomach presses against Brittany's lower back. Brittany is leaning forward, and she's taller than Santana to begin with, so Santana's cheek only really reaches Brittany's shoulder blades. Santana's arms snake around Brittany's torso, hands coming to rest across Brittany's abdomen.

Santana closes her eyes and breathes in. The muscles across Brittany's back move delicately as she concentrates on painting her nails, her stomach rising and falling as she inhales and exhales evenly. Every little while, Brittany straightens to check her handiwork.

Sure, stomping around the school intimidating the hell out of ugly freshmen is fun, but it's the quiet moments alone with Brittany that Santana likes the most. She's not a sap or anything. It's just nice to get a break from kicking ass.

"Britt?"

"Mm?"

Santana plays with the hem of Brittany's shirt. "You look super hot when you're dancing."

"I know."

After a moment, Brittany puts down her nail polish and takes Santana's hands in her own. Her tone turns serious, or as serious as Santana has ever heard her.

"My mom asks about you a lot."

Santana immediately tenses. "Why?"

"She's worried about you," Brittany explains gently. "About your mom not being around."

Santana presses her face against Brittany's back. "Tell her I'm fine," she mutters.

"Are you?" Brittany asks, threading her fingers through Santana's.

Santana closes her eyes. "Yeah, Britt."

"It's just, she used to be gone only a day or two at a time," Brittany broaches, "and now none of us ever see her."

Santana sighs. "Can we just drop this?"

Brittany gives Santana's hands one last squeeze before releasing them, and she goes back to her nails. Santana keeps her eyes shut, forehead pressed to Brittany's back.

"She doesn't want to be here," Santana says quietly.

Brittany puts down her nail polish again and tries to turn around, but Santana stops her. "You should talk to her," Brittany urges, her hands finding Santana's again.

Santana exhales. "What is there to say? She left me to fend for myself. Only reason she still pops in is to make sure she doesn't get booked because I slit my wrists while she wasn't watching or something."

"Don't say that," Brittany admonishes, sounding genuinely upset.

Santana sighs, pressing a kiss to Brittany's spine. "Sorry, B, I didn't mean it. I just—she doesn't want me, and I don't need her. Finish painting your nails."

Brittany reaches behind her to run her palms lightly against Santana's sides. The gesture is comforting, and Santana tries to concentrate on that instead of everything the conversation has highlighted. She's not so dense as to think Brittany would keep quiet about it forever, especially given how much time they spend together, but to Santana, her empty house has become familiar. Not comfortable, just… familiar. Talking about it only serves to remind her of the things she no longer has, and she'd really rather not do that.

Santana fills her head with Brittany's scent, her arms tightening greedily around Brittany.

Eventually, Brittany returns to her nails, and at some point after that, she stretches her legs out in front of her in a large V, and from the way Brittany's shoulder blades shift, Santana knows she's looking back and forth between her feet, admiring her work.

"Do you like my nails?" Brittany asks after a moment.

"Yeah," Santana replies lazily, "I like everything about you."

"Thanks, but you didn't even look at my feet."

Santana chuckles against Brittany's back and indulges her, taking a peek at Brittany's outstretched legs. Her toenails are fire engine red, and on her left big toe, a neat letter 'B' is painted on in white.

"They're pretty," Santana comments.

Brittany wiggles her toes. "I was gonna put an S on my other foot for you, San, but then my toes would say BS, and I don't think I like being insulted by my own feet."

Santana's heart skips a little, and damn, she _really_ needs to stop doing that. She looks up at Brittany. "You'd do that for me?"

"Of course," Brittany replies like it's the most obvious thing ever.

Santana returns to resting her cheek against Brittany's spine, and her hands slide slowly down to the inside of Brittany's thighs. Santana thumbs the smooth expanse of skin there. And suddenly, Brittany is leaning back, pushing Santana down with her. But estimating distances has never been Brittany's forte, and the back of Santana's head hits her night table. Santana's body jerks as she clutches her head in pain.

"Shit!"

"Sorry," Brittany murmurs, turning around. She pushes herself to her knees and reaches to grab a pillow from Santana's bed. Brittany's arm curves around Santana's back, lifting her just enough to slip the pillow on the floor behind her.

Santana slides down to rest her head on the pillow, and Brittany straddles her hips.

Santana smiles up at her. "Your nails probably aren't dry yet."

"Don't care," Brittany replies as she leans down, her lips seeking out Santana's.

Santana's head is still swimming a little, but she opens her mouth to Brittany, taking in her slow, lazy kisses. Santana reaches impatiently for Brittany's arm, tugging eagerly. Brittany, though, doesn't take Santana's hand like usual, and Santana nearly jumps out of her skin when Brittany slides her own fingertips between Santana's thighs.

"Britt…"

Brittany hushes her. "This is easier."

And Santana cannot think of a single thing to counter that, so she relaxes and lets Brittany do her thing.

Brittany's _thing_ happens to not involve Santana's hand at all, and when Brittany pushes Santana's underwear aside and slides two fingers into her without warning, Santana almost comes right then and there. Thankfully, she doesn't, because that would be pretty embarrassing, but it's good, _so_ good. It's not like anything she's ever known. Brittany's fingers are long and slender, and Santana clutches Brittany's wrist, urging her on.

Brittany brushes her lips tenderly across Santana's. "Breathe, San," she says, working a third finger in.

Santana gasps, hips thrusting forward. Brittany leaves a trail of kisses down Santana's neck, working her up. Santana is reaching clumsily for Brittany's skirt when Brittany dips her tongue into Santana's mouth, her fingers pumping to a rhythm that Santana instinctively recognizes. Brittany thumbs Santana's clit, moans against her lips, and Santana is gone, her body shuddering forcefully under Brittany's weight. Brittany swallows Santana's cry, and she kisses Santana until her limbs stop trembling.

Santana's complete lack of stamina would be embarrassing if not for the fact that even this quickly, the pleasure is mind-blowing. Brittany doesn't seem to care either way as long as Santana gets off. And that, Santana can do.

Brittany is smiling as she lifts herself higher. "Sorry I hurt your head," she says, punctuating her words with an apologetic kiss.

Santana's breath is still heavy. "If that happens every time I hit my head, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be brain dead by the end of the week." She cocks her head to study Brittany. "I like this better," she decides.

Brittany grins. "What?"

"You," Santana replies, reaching to stroke Brittany's cheek. "The way you do that thing with your fingers. Jesus."

Brittany's smile widens as she leans down to nip at Santana's jaw. "I adore you," she announces.

Santana's heart starts to thud. Her hands find Brittany's shoulders, and she's pushing before she even makes a conscious decision to. Brittany just stares, looking a little confused. Santana doesn't say anything, but she loosens her grip, her palms sliding down the length of Brittany's arms, gently over bent elbows until she's holding Brittany's hands.

Santana hesitates, but when she finally speaks, it's the only truth she knows. "I adore you too," she says softly, "so much."

Another smile spreads across Brittany's face, bigger and unimaginably brighter, and Santana flushes, unaccustomed to the way Brittany makes her feel. She'd kill for the girl in a damn heartbeat, no questions asked, but she doesn't know how to handle the way her pulse hammers when Brittany kisses her or touches her or even just _smiles_ at her with the intention of doing either.

Santana quickly scrambles to sit up. She climbs to her feet, pulling Brittany up with her, and she nudges the blonde to lie down on the bed before crawling over her. Santana leans down to kiss Brittany, long and slow and heated. Santana's hand glides down over the plane of Brittany's abdomen and gently spreads Brittany's legs.

Santana tries to convince herself that she's only returning a favor, like a repayment or whatever, but by the time she thrusts two fingers into Brittany and the sounds of Brittany's pleased sighs fill Santana's ears, it feels like so much more. Santana shuts her eyes, buries her face into Brittany's neck and tries to focus on something else, like the fact that this is the first time she's ever been inside Brittany, and it's more incredible than she knows how to describe.

Brittany had been right; it is easier this way. There's more control, and Santana's watched and guided Brittany's fingers so many times that she knows exactly how Brittany likes to be touched, how she doesn't, and exactly what gets her off. That last one comes in handy as she thrusts deep, and Santana nearly comes again at the feeling of Brittany clenching around her fingers.

When Brittany is sated and quiet in her arms, Santana plays absentmindedly with Brittany's hair. Brittany's eyes are closed, but Santana knows by the way she's breathing that she's not asleep yet.

"It didn't mean anything," Santana says suddenly. "Texting Puck."

Brittany's eyes open, and they dance with an almost teasing laughter. "I know, San. You already said."

"Just wanted to make sure," Santana mumbles with an embarrassed chuckle.

Brittany presses a reassuring kiss to the tip of Santana's nose. "I think I'm going to have to redo my toenails," she announces after a moment.

"Sorry about that," Santana says as her feet slide to Brittany's.

Brittany shakes her head against the pillow. "Nah, I thought about it, and I'm going to swap the letters on my big toes. SB doesn't stand for anything bad, does it?"

"It's 'stolen base' in baseball," Santana answers.

Brittany smiles. "How do you even know that?"

"I used to watch games with my dad," Santana replies, and she knows what's coming, so she quickly preempts it with, "Don't want to talk about it, Britt."

Brittany falls silent for a few moments, but she does drop it. "Sb is also the symbol for the element antimony," she says like she's commenting on the weather.

Santana fills with disbelief. "How the hell do you know _that_?"

"Well," Brittany begins with a thoughtful smile, "one day, Allison Cooper was saying how her whole name could be spelled out with element symbols. I didn't know what that was, so she took out this big chart with all these letters on it. I tried with my name but it didn't work. Then I tried yours, but antimony's symbol was Sb. That doesn't even make any sense. If antimony was An instead, your name would work."

Santana doesn't know if she should laugh or cry, so she sort of just stares in shock. How does Brittany, the girl who'd managed to lose a damn _wheelchair_ , remember anything about chemistry, which she isn't even taking? As the surprise slowly but surely wears off, the amusement kicks in, and Santana howls with laughter.

"Oh my god, Britt, you're such a geek!"

Brittany grins and nestles coyly against Santana's neck. "Only for you."

"You," Santana decides, punctuating the word with a kiss, "are my favorite."

Brittany's reply is as immediate as it is self-evident: "You've always been my favorite."

Santana falls asleep holding Brittany like she's afraid the blonde will slither away in the dead of night.

Oh, and Santana's plan to get Quinn to leave Puck alone? Goes off without a hitch. By Monday afternoon, Quinn's back in Finn's gorilla-like arms, and Puck's back to craving women twice his age, so as far as Santana is concerned, order is restored to McKinley High.

\--

The shit hits the fan a few days before sectionals.

For the first time in her life, Santana's kind of glad that all the focus is on Quinn and her baby drama, because in all the chaos, Brittany lets slip that she and Santana are having sex.

Which, you know, they are, but that doesn't mean Santana wants the whole school to start cracking lesbian jokes at them or anything. It's not as bad as being a gay dude, but in Lima, people get knifed for that kind of shit. At the very least, it's no good for her rep, and with Coach looking for a new head cheerleader, she needs to keep that sparkling. That means no sex with girls. So she's a little pissed it gets out.

Not really at Brittany, just in general. Though most of the time, that translates to the same thing. It's not that she purposely hurts Brittany, because she hates hates _hates_ doing that more than anything. But Santana has a tendency to bowl over everyone around her when she's pissed, whether they deserve it or not.

"I'm sorry," Brittany offers later when they're at their lockers.

Santana shrugs. "It's fine."

"You're mad."

"Not at you," Santana huffs, closing her locker.

Brittany does the same. "It's hard to tell the difference sometimes, Santana."

"I'm not mad at you, Britt," Santana snaps, turning to face her.

And for all of Brittany's cluelessness, she reads Santana alarmingly well. "You're mad because you don't want anyone to know," Brittany says flatly.

Santana shakes her head, her ponytail whipping around. "That's not it."

"Yeah, it is." Brittany shrugs. "Whatever, Santana, if you don't want people to know, nobody has to know."

Santana narrows her eyes. "I'm not like, ashamed."

Brittany doesn't say anything.

"I'm not," Santana insists.

"Okay."

Santana sighs. "You don't believe me."

Brittany shrugs again. "Because you're mad."

" _I'm not_ —" Santana closes her mouth and clenches her jaw. She counts to three in her head. "I'm not mad at you."

"I have to go to math," Brittany says suddenly, turning to walk away.

Santana grabs Brittany's wrist to stop her. "You haven't gone to math in a month, and we have Spanish."

Brittany tenses. "Let go of me, Santana."

Santana loosens her grip and drops Brittany's arm, and the blonde takes off. That thing about how Santana hates hurting Brittany? She really fucking hates it. It's like a knife to her gut, because for as long as the two have known each other, Santana's made it her duty to protect Brittany, to pummel anyone who dares lay a hand on her. And then there Santana goes, mouthing off with horribly misdirected anger.

But Santana forces herself to go to Spanish instead of chasing after Brittany because of pride or rebellion or some dumb shit she knows she's going to regret later.

That night, Santana sleeps alone. She doesn't sleep much. At a quarter to three, she's still tossing around under her covers. It's stuffy in her room for no reason at all. She kicks off all her sheets but that doesn't seem to help, so she gets up and grabs her phone, with the intent of fumbling downstairs for a drink or _anything_ to cool her heated skin.

Her legs decide to carry her in a completely opposite direction, and before her sleep-deprived brain can process what she's doing, she finds herself at the doorway of her mother's bedroom. The bed is meticulously made, the pillows lonely against the headboard. The whole room looks untouched, immaculate, _wrong_.

Santana's chest feels hollow, suddenly, and she cannot help but wonder what Brittany is doing. Sleeping, probably. Dreaming about rainbows and fairies and ducklings, and— _god_ , Santana just wants to curl up with her.

Santana tightens her grip around her phone and turns away from the empty bedroom. She heads downstairs and sits down at the kitchen table with a glass of ice water.

Bleary-eyed, she calls Puck. She hasn't really spoken to him much since the whole sexting incident, but she's pretty sure that's blown over by now. Grudges with Puck pass quickly. He'll call her a bitch and she'll retort with asshole, and they're off plotting destruction again. That's the way he's always been with her. It's kind of reassuring, and probably why, despite everything, Santana doesn't hesitate to dial his number in the middle of the night.

Or maybe it had started that one time the two of them nailed that Hummel kid's lawn furniture to his roof in the middle of the night after they'd both had a little too much to drink. You don't pull a prank like that and _not_ gain some form of mutual respect for each other.

On the eighth ring, Puck finally picks up.

"This isn't a booty call," Santana says in lieu of a greeting.

Puck's reply comes with a dash of irritation. "Santana? Shit, what time is it?"

"Late," Santana dismisses. "Listen, I need to tell you something and then ask your opinion about it."

Puck groans. "Are you high or something? Can't this wait until morning?"

"Puck, come on. Wake the fuck up."

"Alright alright," Puck intones, "I'm listening. Shoot."

Santana picks up her glass and gulps down a mouthful of cold water. "How's your face?"

"Finn can toss a football but he punches like a toddler. I'm fine," Puck replies. "So what's up?"

"I had a fight with Brittany," she admits lamely.

"You called me at three in the fucking morning to tell me you butted heads with blondie? Did you accidentally list my number under 'Noah Suckerman' in your phone? Me and girl talk don't exactly get along."

Santana stares at the condensation forming on her water glass and clenches her jaw. "The fight," she continues slowly, "was about her accidentally telling half of Glee Club that she and I are having sex."

Puck is quiet for a moment, then lets out a giant bark of laughter. "You're kidding."

Santana covers her eyes. "I don't need shit about this right now, okay? Fingers are like dicks that never go soft."

Puck lets loose another laugh. "Okay, Santana, you're either drunk or emotional and I'm hanging up. Pop an Ambien and go back to bed."

"Wait," Santana preempts quickly, frowning at Puck's indifference. "You don't think that's like, weird? I mean, she's a girl."

"Weird? You know what I was doing when you called me to whine about your petty chick problems? I was dreaming about Megan Fox and Adriana Lima playing tonsil hockey." Santana can practically hear him grinning lewdly. "So first, I'm pissed you interrupted because it was some hot shit, and second, girl-on-girl is never 'weird'."

"2 girls 1 cup," Santana deadpans.

Puck groans. "You're sick, Lopez. Fucking sick."

Santana smirks. " _Look_ —"

"Unless I'm getting a threesome out of this," Puck interrupts, "I'm probably not interested. It's the middle of the night. My mom's gonna wake up and wonder why I'm hollering about girl-girl sex."

"Hear me out, okay?" Santana takes a breath. "What the hell do I do? Not everyone is a freak like you. This is Lima, for fuck's sake. I don't want to stop, but I'm not giving up my rep because Brittany spilled to a bunch of mouth-breathers."

Puck exaggerates a sigh, but Santana rolls her eyes. She knows it's all for show.

"Will you quit being a jerk and just humor me?" Santana asks, tapping impatiently against the tabletop. "You think I would've called _you_ if I wasn't at the end of my fucking wits?"

"Fine," Puck declares after a moment. "You owe me one though, and the line gets drawn at shoe shopping. All right, who'd Brittany tell?"

"Tina Turner, Lance Bass, Goth Asian, and Wheelchair Kid."

"I think you're in the clear," Puck assesses. "That black chick's a total gossip, but they pretty much stick within the walls of their little club." He pauses, and his next words are hesitant. "They managed to keep the baby shit from Finn, if that counts for anything."

Santana softens. "Hey," she broaches, "you doing okay?"

Puck's voice, when he finally replies, is strained. "Don't really want to talk about it, Santana."

Santana smiles a little, because there—they've got something in common. There's a familiarity in Puck that Santana finds comforting. They're similar in many ways, different in others, and she'd reached out to him tonight because she knows that at his core, he gets it. She'll put up with all the sex jokes he can dish out if she can keep that.

"Listen, S," Puck segues. "You don't want to stop doing this, then don't. I'm all for a little girl-on-girl. Just, you know, watch your back."

Santana nods, even though she's alone in the room. "Yeah, thanks."

"And take it easy," he continues. "Your fights with Brittany are about as threatening as a bar of soap. Apologize with a nice backrub; she'll be all over it. Tape that shit and send me a copy. Use oil."

Santana chuckles. "Bye, Puck."

"Wasn't kidding about the threesome," he says before he hangs up.

Santana chugs down a few more gulps of water then climbs back upstairs. She curls under her covers and plays with her phone for a moment before sliding it open.

 _I'm sorry_ , she types into a new message, then quickly erases it and tosses her phone onto her night table, frustrated with herself.

Santana shuts her eyes, imagines a warm body occupying the other side of the bed, and manages to drift into a restless sleep.

\--

The next morning at school, Santana finds Brittany at her locker, and she almost waits until Brittany clears the hallway before approaching. But Santana is no coward, so she straightens up and marches toward the lockers. Santana reaches for her lock, and Brittany briefly pauses whatever she's doing at the noise, but she doesn't look up.

"Britt." Santana's voice sounds tiny, and she hates it. Her heart even starts to pound a little.

Brittany tilts her head toward Santana, and she smiles a little. "Hi."

The corners of Santana's lips twitch. "Hi. I missed you last night."

Brittany exhales. "Me too, San."

Santana reaches for Brittany's hand. "I'm sorry I'm such a bitch sometimes."

"Sometimes," she echoes lightly with a grin, pinky wrapping around Santana's.

Santana mirrors her smile. "Hey, you want to ditch this place?"

Brittany's eyes sparkle, and she nods.

Santana takes Brittany to get ice cream. It's cold out, so the shop's pretty empty, and the elderly woman behind the counter kind of glares at them for being out of school. Santana stares her down though. They're skipping _geometry_ , for god's sake. As far as Santana is concerned, that should immediately be replaced with a course on personal hygiene, and that Jewfro kid should be the first one enrolled.

Santana is working on her fudge sundae when Brittany says, "I really hate fighting with you."

"Me too." Santana looks up. "Let's not do it again soon?"

"Okay," Brittany agrees, licking at her soft serve. "Are you still mad about me telling everyone?"

"No, Britt." Santana scoops another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. "And anyway, I don't think it's a big deal. Everybody's too wrapped up in sectionals and Quinn's baby drama to care."

Brittany doesn't say anything, just bites purposefully into her soft serve. A few colorful sprinkles tumble to the tabletop.

Santana watches Brittany lick her lips for a few moments. "Do you want people to know, B?"

Brittany shrugs. "Only if you do."

"But it's just like, sex, right?" Santana says, lightly deflecting. Her head immediately fills with images of Brittany pressed against her, light kisses and late-night laughter, but she shoves them away. "And going around announcing that kind of stuff is Puck's deal. For us girls, mystery's part of the game."

Brittany bites into her cone. She doesn't look up. "Totally."

"Not that we have to lie or anything if somebody asks," Santana continues, suddenly unsure what she herself wants. "It's no big deal if they know. Just, you know, it doesn't have to be made into a _thing_. It's nobody's business what we do."

"Okay," Brittany says absentmindedly. She takes another bite of her cone. "I don't care, San. I just don't want to stop."

"We won't," Santana promises softly, and she thinks about her carefully-crafted three-point plan.


	3. Chapter 3

The road to sectionals does not start out well.

Santana hates to admit it, but New Directions needs Finn to win. Not that he particularly excels at either vocals or dancing – in fact, he kind of sucks at following choreography – but without him, they have to pick up Jewfro to hit twelve members, and Santana's pretty sure he's harboring a village of runaway Smurfs in his hair. Yeah, they're pretty much _screwed_.

The bus ride to sectionals is not the most pleasant thing Santana has ever endured. Morale is low, and everyone's miserable. Rachel doesn't even _talk_. Normally, Santana would bake whoever shut her up a freaking cake, but right now, they all need a distraction.

Most of them aren't even sitting together, and Ms. Pillsbury keeps disinfecting her seat instead of making any attempt at uniting them. No pep talks; nothing. Santana kind of wants to bleach her own brain for thinking it, but if Finn were here, they'd be in much better shape. First of all, Rachel would quit looking like a sad grandma, and that'd be a pretty good start.

Santana still sits with Brittany though. She'd even given Brittany the window seat. Across the aisle, Puck is seated alone. Brittany is staring out the window waving at passing cars, so Santana strikes up a conversation with Puck.

"How's it going with—?" Santana tilts her head to the back of the bus, where Quinn is sitting quietly by herself.

Puck shrugs. "She doesn't want anything to do with me."

"That's a good thing, right? I mean, she'll give the kid to some barren couple, and you won't have to deal with any of it. Babies barf more than bulimics."

Puck is indignant. "I would be a good dad to this kid, okay? I can deal with a little upchuck."

Santana opens her mouth to reply, but a shriek pierces the air a few seats behind them.

"Jacob Ben Israel, if you try to touch my breasts one more time, I am going to asphyxiate you. As the youngest blue belt ever at my Jiu-Jitsu Academy, please be aware I am fully capable of doing so."

Santana pushes herself higher and turns around to check out the commotion. Puck rises from his seat and walks to where Jacob and Rachel are sitting. He hovers menacingly over them. Jacob cowers, and Puck reaches out to grab the back of Jacob's collar, pulling him up. With one swift tug, Puck shoves Jacob into the seat opposite Rachel's.

"Stay there and shut up, unless you want a monster wedgie."

Santana can barely see Rachel's face, but she practically _hears_ Rachel grinning. Foolishly. "Thanks, Noah."

Puck shrugs his shoulders, and instead of returning to his own seat across from Santana, he continues toward the back of the bus and slides into Quinn's seat.

Santana rolls her eyes and turns toward Brittany, dropping her hand to Brittany's bare thigh. Brittany immediately spins to face Santana. Without another word, Santana slides her palm under the hem of Brittany's Cheerios skirt, fingertips spanning to her hipbone.

Brittany smiles. "Santana," she warns, even as she spreads her legs a little.

Santana fingers the edge of Brittany's spankies, then slips her hand underneath the tight material. Brittany slides lower in her seat to give Santana better access, and Santana makes good use of the new angle by rolling the pads of her fingertips around Brittany's clit. Brittany's head falls forward, her mouth clamped shut. Santana brushes a quick kiss to Brittany's shoulder, her fingers easing up.

"San, come on," Brittany murmurs impatiently.

"Shit," Santana groans, her fingertips hesitant at Brittany's entrance. "I wish we weren't on this bus right now."

Brittany bucks her hips, pushing forward. " _Santana_."

"Okay," Santana relents, taking a quick peek around. Puck is still at the back of the bus. "Okay, but be quiet."

Brittany nods and closes her eyes. The angle is a little tricky, but Santana manages to work two fingers in, and Brittany is _not_ quiet. Not that she's loud, either, but Mike, seated two rows in front of them, looks over the top of his seat at the sound. Santana waves with her free hand and tries to smile innocently, hoping she doesn't have some horrible sex face on. Brittany, thankfully, still has her head down, and she has her own hand pressed firmly against her mouth. Mike furrows his brows, but he turns back around and otherwise leaves them alone.

Santana rests her forehead momentarily against Brittany's cheek. " _Britt_ ," she hisses.

"Sorry," Brittany mumbles through her fingers. "I'm sorry. _Mmph_."

Brittany doesn't sound very sorry, and Santana's wrist is starting to hurt a little from the strain of being bent at an awkward angle, but they've done this enough times for Santana to know that it won't take much more, so she picks up her pace, fingers curving in and out, in and out, and Brittany's breathing thickens until she sounds like she's hyperventilating into her own palm, but nobody else seems to notice. Not that Santana's really paying attention at this point. The heel of Santana's hand presses against Brittany's clit, and Brittany tenses, a low whimper escaping from her throat as she clenches around Santana's fingers.

Brittany's head falls to Santana's shoulder, hand still clamped tightly over her mouth. Santana reaches to pull Brittany's hand away. Brittany's eyes open, and she's looking at Santana with a satisfied little grin. Santana presses a quick kiss to Brittany's forehead. She pulls out and wipes her fingers on Brittany's thigh, under the skirt.

As Brittany's breathing returns to normal, she reaches to spread Santana's legs, but Santana stops her.

"We've still got like, two hours, San."

It's not that Santana doesn't want to get off. Of course she does. And Brittany knows how best to do exactly that. Actually, watching Brittany squirm has gotten her a little randy. But it's the middle of a damn school bus, and there's no way she'd be able to go unnoticed, especially since Mike's apparently got supersonic hearing now. She's not exactly known for being quiet. Ask Brittany.

A flash of blonde hair from the aisle makes Santana turn her head. It's Quinn. She slides into the seat Puck had abandoned earlier. Puck slides in after her.

Santana makes a face. "What's she doing here?"

Brittany pats Santana's lap. "Be nice," she instructs.

Quinn looks away toward the window, and for a moment – just a _moment_ – Santana almost feels bad for her. Puck gives Santana a _come on, dude_ kind of look, and Santana rolls her eyes, but she leaves Quinn alone.

Santana doesn't try to be a bitch or anything. Well, okay, sometimes she does. But take Rachel Berry. Yeah, she can sing and everything, but does she really have to go on and on about her _career_ , spewing words out of her mouth like she's applying for an auctioneer job? And don't get Santana started on those sweaters. The jokes totally write themselves.

Sometimes though, Santana forgets why exactly she despises Quinn. They'd had some good times together as Cheerios, and Brittany obviously still likes her. Sure, she went and got herself knocked up, but isn't Puck just as responsible there? And Santana doesn't hate Puck. Maybe it's the hypocrisy thing, or the fact that Santana's always had to play second fiddle to her stupid chastity act.

But now that everyone finally knows the truth about Quinn's baby, and she's sitting there all quiet and miserable, Santana actually feels a little sorry for her. Not enough to reach over and give her a comforting pat on the back or anything, because _what_ , but enough to leave her alone. Santana's kind of over the whole kicking people when they're already down thing. She only does it to keep up with her master plan, but nobody in Glee really gives a shit about that, so she can probably get away with not insulting Quinn and her bastard child every five seconds.

Besides, Brittany's head is still resting on Santana's shoulder, and she starts playing with the hem of Santana's skirt. Santana nudges Brittany's hand away, and Brittany smirks. Santana's seen that one before, and all of those times have ended with Brittany having her way with Santana. Two hours left. Good _Lord_.

Quinn Fabray? Not exactly what Santana wants to waste her energy on right then and there.

\--

Eight pairs of angry, suspicious eyes, and Santana does not like being under siege one little bit. She likes it even less when Brittany admits to accidentally leaking their sectionals set list. Brittany, who is loyal to a fault. Brittany, who would do anything to please. It makes Santana's heart ache a little to think that Coach had taken advantage of Brittany's kindness, her fidelity. Santana's protective instinct flares, and she wants nothing more than to punch a wall. Preferably one in the shape of Sue Sylvester.

Santana launches into a monologue about wanting to be there, which isn't a lie or anything, but she does it mostly to take a little heat off Brittany. And Rachel – of all people, _Rachel_ – backs her up, and that's almost enough to make Santana feel bad about everything she's put the girl through. Almost.

Even Santana is relieved when Finn shows up, and with a plan to boot.

Still, it's a race against time. They've got less than an hour to come up with some choreography, and as brilliant as Mike and Brittany are at dancing, coordinating twelve people to look halfway decent on stage is a daunting task, especially with Artie's wheelchair. Brittany is engaged though, and she patiently helps Finn and Puck through the steps. Only Santana notices the quiet guilt in her eyes.

When they're changing into their costumes, Santana pulls Brittany aside.

"This isn't your fault," Santana says softly. Brittany doesn't even look at her. Santana tries again. "Brittany."

"I know," Brittany replies, sounding upset, and it breaks Santana's heart. "I know, but I shouldn't have."

Santana reaches up to cup Brittany's cheeks. Brittany's skin is hot to the touch. "Coach would've killed you if you didn't do exactly as she said."

"Yeah, but this is more fun than Cheerios practice. I didn't mean to mess it up." Brittany's shoulders rise in a shrug. "If we lose and Glee Club is finished, it's going to be my fault, at least a little bit."

Santana shakes her head. "No, Britt, it won't. Hey, look at me. None of this is your fault. We're a team, okay? Nobody's blaming you, and if anybody dares to, I'm going to kick them so hard in the crotch, they won't be able to walk for a week."

That earns a tiny smile. "Okay."

Santana fingers the pink ribbon holding back Brittany's hair. "You look really pretty, B." She presses her lips to Brittany's, quickly and discreetly. "Now let's go out there and win this thing."

And they do. They sing their damn hearts out and do exactly that.

\--

The ride home from sectionals is significantly noisier than the ride there, and even Santana is excited about the giant trophy Finn and Rachel are holding between them in the aisle. Everyone is gathered around, and the atmosphere is phenomenal. There's pride, and triumph, and pure, unadulterated joy. Santana doesn't get to finger Brittany in public again, but you know. Win some; lose some.

Ms. Pillsbury elects to drive Mr. Schuester's car back so that Finn can celebrate with his teammates on the bus. Santana's pretty sure all the guidance counselor is really interested in is marinating herself in Mr. Schue's scent, which is completely pathetic, but whatever. None of Santana's business, that.

"We should all be very proud of ourselves. My rendition of _Don't Rain on My Parade_ was flawless, not to mention absolutely riveting."

Kurt rolls his eyes in the background, but Quinn pats Rachel's arm.

"Yeah, you did good," she says. Everyone just kind of gapes at Quinn like she's some alien life form, including Rachel.

"Th—thanks, Quinn."

"Brittany, Santana, Mike, Matt," Finn says, turning to them, "you guys did an awesome job with the choreography, especially in the time we had."

"Teaching it to you was kind of a pain though," Brittany interjects, and everyone laughs.

Santana hates to admit it, but it's actually nice how everyone gets along at the end of the day. That she and Brittany are not shunned for being outed as Sue Sylvester's eyes on the inside. It's kind of a symbiotic relationship, really. Glee Club needs her and Brittany to qualify for and actually have a shot at regionals, and Santana's position in Glee nabs her some positive karma from Coach. Win-win.

Santana looks at Brittany and smiles. The blonde is laughing at something Mike has said, and her cheeks are flushed pink, partly in delight and partly from the heat of twelve animated bodies crowded together. Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Brittany so beautiful. If there's only one reason why Santana's glad they're bringing home the trophy, it's this: Brittany, guilt-free. Coach'll give them shit for it later, but right now, Brittany isn't blaming herself for leaking the set list. Brittany's happy, and so incredibly vibrant Santana almost has to remind herself how to breathe.

But beyond that, the truth is, Santana's glad they won because she actually wants to be a part of this. Glee Club. It's lame, and it's ridiculous, and half the people in it still makes Santana want to claw out her own eyes sometimes, but it's _fun_ , and rewarding, and has she mentioned Brittany's dancing?

Santana becomes aware of a pinky gently linking with hers, and she smiles, leaning lightly into Brittany.

Mercedes reaches for the top of the trophy. "I can't wait to show this to Mr. Schue. He's gonna flip."

"I'm surprised they had the money to splurge on something this big," Kurt says. "The details are amateurish at best, but we can't expect everyone to have an eye for design."

"We should put together a number for Mr. Schue," Artie pipes up, and Tina nods her head furiously in agreement.

"Yeah, I agree," Puck offers. "Dude's been having it rough lately, what with leaving his wife and being banned from competition."

"Anyone got an idea for a song?" Finn asks, looking around.

"I would be happy to supply a song from my ever-extensive and diverse library," Rachel replies proudly.

Everyone huddles around Rachel's iPod, and with the exception of Kurt who once in a while makes a sarcastic comment about Rachel's taste in music, they remain quiet. Song after song, artist after artist, but none of them are right. There are a lot of show tunes, as expected, but Rachel's music collection actually surprises Santana some.

Kelly Clarkson comes on; Santana's never been a fan, but Rachel starts singing along, and so does Mercedes, then Brittany and Tina and even Quinn join in.

"This is the one," Rachel says.

"We can totally make this sound better than Kelly Clarkson," Tina adds.

"Any objections?" Rachel asks, looking blatantly at Kurt.

Kurt turns to Mercedes, who is still mouthing the words. "No, that'll work."

As chatter breaks out about the arrangement of the piece and matching choreography, Santana nudges Brittany.

"I think," Santana says, quietly enough so that only Brittany hears, "that I'm going to ask Mr. Schue for a solo. When we get back."

Brittany breaks out into a bright grin, arms wrapping around Santana's neck. She dusts a kiss to Santana's cheek. "You're going to sound so amazing, Santana."

\--

The day after their win at sectionals, Santana goes to check up on Puck. Everyone's been so concerned about how Finn's handling the news, and how Quinn feels now that the secret's out, that they've forgotten that this completely turns Puck's world upside down too. Brittany tags along.

Quinn answers the door, and what the holy _hell_?

"Hi, Quinn," Brittany greets sweetly.

"Hey, Brittany," Quinn replies, leaning in for a hug.

Santana isn't nearly as impressed. "What are you doing here?"

Quinn smiles, a little bitterly. "I live here now. Finn kicked me out."

And Santana has to admit, it's a little satisfying to hear, even if it officially sucks for Puck. "Is Puck around?"

Quinn pulls the door open a little wider and steps aside. "Yeah, come on in."

Santana walks in. Brittany follows, and Quinn closes the door behind them. They find Puck in the living room, sprawled across his couch. He turns his line of vision toward Brittany and Santana when they enter, but otherwise makes no effort to move.

"Yo," he mumbles, and he looks _tired_.

Quinn sits down on one half of the armchair and pats the other, motioning for Brittany to squeeze in beside her. Brittany happily complies. Santana contemplates a dig about Quinn's ass being huge, but she decides against it. For Brittany's sake, mostly, but also because Quinn's hips in pregnancy are actually still quite slender, and wow, Santana has spent about five seconds longer than she has ever wanted to spend thinking about the girth of Quinn's hips.

Santana shuffles to the couch. "Move your ass, Puckerman."

Puck apparently doesn't even have the energy to argue; he just moves his feet to free up some space on the couch. Santana takes a seat and looks around the room.

"So what's going on here?"

"Quinn stayed up all night puking her guts out," Puck intones.

"It's called being _pregnant_ ," Quinn shoots back.

"It's called _morning_ sickness," Puck mocks, "not all damn night sickness."

That infuriates Quinn. "You're always talking about how you want to raise this baby with me. How the hell are you going to do that if you're a bitchy zombie after one sleepless night? Babies cry, Puck, and babies puke. Sometimes all night."

"The way you jump down everyone's throat, I'm not shocked they do both."

Brittany is practically holding Quinn back from leaping out of her seat. Santana rises and stands between them.

"Okay, that's enough. Both of you, shut up. Puck, get your cranky ass upstairs and in bed. Take a damn nap. Quinn, chill out. Your face is so red I don't know if you're just pissed or about to pop out your bastard kid."

Puck tries to protest, but Santana isn't having any of that, and it's like pulling teeth with Puck sometimes, but she eventually manages to get him to crawl upstairs.

With Puck out of earshot, Quinn looks at Santana. "We used to be friends, remember?" she asks flatly with a hint of bitchiness that Santana remembers from her Cheerio days.

Santana narrows her eyes. "No, I used to indulge all your dumbass ideas because Coach slapped the captaincy on your wrist instead of mine. You were on a massive power trip."

"No, Santana, we used to be friends," Quinn insists. She turns and smiles sweetly at Brittany. "Brittany remembers. Don't you, Brittany?"

"Don't rope Brittany into this," Santana snaps. "She's a bucket of sunshine and rainbows. Of course she's going to think we were all friends."

Brittany keeps quiet, electing to remain neutral.

Quinn sighs and turns back to Santana. "I don't understand why you hate me so much."

"I just think you're a damn hypocrite," Santana replies.

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "And you're not?"

Santana scoffs. "Excuse me?"

Quinn taps Brittany's thigh. "Acting all into guys when it's Brittany you really want."

The room falls silent, and the tips of Santana's ears start to burn. A self-indulgent grin spreads across Quinn's face.

"How did you—"

"Oh, come on, Santana. We were _friends_. We didn't spend a year sharing locker rooms and hotel rooms for nothing."

Santana straightens up. "So what? That's not hypocrisy. That's like, bisexuality or something." She frowns at that.

"Whatever you say," Quinn dismisses. "I don't _need_ your friendship, Santana, but I'd sure appreciate it." She holds out her hands in defeat. "I don't have a family anymore. This—" She looks at Brittany and smiles softly. "Friends are all I've got."

"Let me guess," Santana mocks, "Glee Club taught you that."

"You know what?" Quinn fires back, suddenly sounding more like the head Cheerio Santana remembers. "Yeah, it did. Given your own situation, it wouldn't kill you to try dropping the bitch act. Knock 'giving people shit' a few points down on your priority list."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Q. And my _situation_? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Quinn smirks, self-satisfied. "Your parents?"

Brittany winces. "Quinn," she reprimands, dropping her hand on Quinn's lap.

Santana bristles. "You shut your fucking mouth, Fabray."

"Why? You mercilessly pick on Rachel for being short, Mercedes for being overweight, me for being pregnant. What's the difference?"

"The difference," Santana grinds out, "is that I'm about to knock your teeth into your throat."

Brittany hovers protectively over Quinn. "San," she cautions.

Quinn softens. "Santana, I'm just saying. We're not so different when it comes to that."

"Doesn't make us friends," Santana grumbles.

"No," Quinn agrees, "but I've always liked you. I don't know what your problem was with me, but being in Cheerios wouldn't have been the same without you two."

Santana deflates a little. She'd been so busy hating Quinn for so long – _despising_ her – that the sympathy creeping into her chest is a shock to the system. Cheerios actually does suck a little without Quinn, who had been one of the few on that squad of mindless drones to share Santana's aptitude for snark. And what had she really disliked so much about Quinn in the first place? The little Christian prude act, probably, which eventually snowballed into the fuckery that was babygate. But Quinn's owned up to all of it, and that has to count for something, right? And isn't Brittany always trying to get her to be nicer?

Quinn and Brittany are both watching her, waiting.

"I still think you're a manipulative bitch for dragging Puck and Finn around with you like that," Santana finally says.

"I know," Quinn nods, "and I kind of was."

"But I'm sorry your parents are such assholes," Santana offers.

"Thanks." Quinn smiles a little. "So we don't hate each other?"

"We don't hate each other," Santana confirms.

Brittany jumps out of her seat and rushes into Santana's arms, nearly toppling her. That alone makes putting up with Quinn worth it. From the armchair, Quinn laughs knowingly.

\--

Rachel Berry throws a Christmas party and invites everyone from Glee. Which, what.

It's the last day of school before winter break, and Rachel is prancing around the choir room passing out pink invitations slips, a gold star adorning each one. Very Christmassy.

"I understand that for many, Christmas is observed with family. But in many ways, we have become a family since the beginning of the school year, culminating in our extraordinary underdog victory at sectionals. I believe that celebrating this holiday together will bring about a sense of unity and help boost morale, which will surely lead us to success at regionals."

"Aren't you Jewish?" Quinn asks, holding her card like she's unsure what exactly to do with it.

"Only half," Rachel replies. "My family is very tolerant of all cultures. We celebrate everything."

"Will there be booze?"

"Noah, you know I do not condone underage drinking."

Puck flips his card around in his hands. "Then I'm out."

"I'm celebrating Kwanzaa with Mercedes," Kurt says quickly, handing his invitation back to Rachel.

Mercedes looks to Kurt, then back to Rachel. "Um, yeah, Kurt and I will be lighting kinaras. Sorry, Rachel."

When Rachel hands Santana an invite, she sees it for what it is. Rachel wants people around her. That's all. All that stuff about unity and morale is a front; what Santana hears is _blah blah blah I don't want to be alone_. Rachel's dads, Santana imagines, aren't around much. Off doing important gay things, probably. Santana gags a little at the idea that she and Rachel actually have something in common, but it takes one to know one, or whatever, right? There's something hollow about Rachel that she tries to fill by being completely obnoxious.

On some level though, Santana gets it, and maybe she's going soft, but she skims over the details of the party and says, "I'll be there."

Everyone kind of does a double-take. Even Rachel turns to stare in disbelief, and she almost looks like she's bracing herself for the punch line. It's not the kind of intimidation that Santana's really all that proud of anymore.

Santana shrugs. "What the big deal? I have nothing better to do."

Brittany leans in close. "That's Rachel," she whispers. "You hate her."

"You like her, right?" Santana asks.

Brittany looks Rachel up and down. "She kind of says a lot of words I don't understand, but she's not like, Osama Bin Laden. That's the guy who killed all those Jews, right?"

Santana turns to the rest of the room. "Look, it's five hours of my life. There'll be free food, and the more of you come, the less we'll feel Rachel's presence. Who knows, it could actually be fun."

And even though Santana's just slapped her with a backhanded compliment at best, Rachel beams. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Santana."

Kurt and Mercedes still opt out, and Artie and Tina already have plans with their families, but everyone else agrees to show up, even Puck, reluctantly. So what if Santana does Rachel a favor because her Cheerios uniform still affords her power and respect despite being in Glee? Maybe she kind of owes it to her for all the years of torment.

Not that Santana Lopez owes anyone _anything_ , but you know. If she did.

\--

In the week before Rachel's party, Santana picks out an iTunes gift card, and Brittany grabs a few sheets of gold star stickers. They tack everything into the inside of a festive Christmas card and sign their names at the bottom.

When they show up at her front steps on the 23rd, actually on time for her party, Rachel answers the door with an ecstatic smile that nearly spans her whole face. It'd be kind of endearing if it wasn't also totally obnoxious. Santana just barely stops herself from asking Rachel if she'd gotten dressed in the dark, because she's sporting the ugliest Christmas sweater Santana has ever seen.

"I like your sweater," Brittany says, reaching for the bright red _ball_ sticking out like a malformed third boob on Rachel's lower chest. "Rudolph's story is so sad."

"I tacked the ball on myself," Rachel explains proudly. "It was just a regular deer before. I realized this morning as I was picking out my outfit for the day that I don't actually have any Christmas-themed attire in my wardrobe, unless you count the pair of panties patterned with what I thought were plain gold stars until I took a closer look and noticed that there were also tiny candy canes interspersed between them."

Brittany grins. "Are you're wearing them?"

"As much as I dislike commenting about my undergarments, yes, I am."

"Awesome." Brittany holds out the card they'd picked for Rachel. "This is for you," she offers.

Rachel opens the card, and Santana notices that sometime after they'd signed their names, Brittany had gone and scribbled in a personalized message. Santana, accustomed to reading Brittany's chicken-scratch, even upside down, quickly skims over the words: _So you can keep sharing your gift of music with us._ Brittany had even doodled a tiny music note at the end.

"I didn't write that," Santana is quick to clarify, even though she kind of thinks it's the sweetest thing. She just doesn't need Rachel Berry getting any ideas about this kindness thing being permanent or anything, okay? Some Christmas cheer is all this is, nothing else.

"The gift card was all Santana's idea though," Brittany delivers proudly.

Rachel looks about ready to cry as she launches into Brittany's arms, then Santana's, and Santana almost laughs at how ridiculous the entire scenario is, that she's not prying Rachel off and trying to shove her head into a locker for being short and annoying and having absolutely no sense of discretion.

Don't misunderstand; Rachel is still short and annoying and has the social finesse of a jar of pickles. Santana just doesn't feel like clocking her every time she opens her mouth, which is new. Not unwelcome… just new. Since winning sectionals, and making up with Quinn, Santana's been pretty mellow, which is so not her style, but she'd honestly rather sing and dance than terrorize some pimply-faced kid. She isn't sure how she feels about that yet.

"Gonna let us in before the new year, Berry?"

Rachel steps aside to let them in, smile never fading from her lips.

Finn and Matt are out back, tossing a football around in the snow. Puck has his guitar out, and he's actually strumming a few Christmas tunes. Quinn is sitting nearby, while Mike is doing some crazy dance move balancing on his head. Brittany immediately joins Mike in his impromptu dance. Rachel takes Brittany and Santana's jackets and heads for the kitchen to get a new round of refreshments.

Santana nods toward Puck and slides into the seat next to Quinn.

Quinn smiles faintly. "You actually came."

Santana tilts her head in a short nod. "Yeah. Did you really think my big speech was just some way to trick all of you into showing?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," Quinn replies, "but yeah."

Santana looks toward the kitchen. "Rachel's a little man-dwarf sometimes, but she doesn't want to be alone at Christmas. I get that."

"You have Brittany," Quinn says, turning to the two dancers in the middle of Rachel's living room.

Santana does the same and gets momentarily distracted by Brittany holding herself up with one hand. "What about Brittany?"

Quinn shrugs. "You don't really know what loneliness is."

"Don't do that, Q," Santana glowers. "You know about my family shit."

"I don't, actually," Quinn replies, but not unkindly. "I caught the gist of it from being around, but you were always pretty defensive about that."

Santana stays silent for a moment. She's not about to go spew out her goddamn life story, but something about Quinn puts Santana in a generous mood. Bonus points to the blonde for having an even more messed up family situation than Santana, so she decides to just go for it. They're supposed to be friends now, right? No harm in sharing a little of the fuckery, especially since Santana's been directly and indirectly subjected to Quinn's family drama llama for months now.

"My dad," Santana begins, already internally wincing, "ran off somewhere out west when I was twelve, and my mom took it like a little bitch. Grabbed a flight attendant gig out of Fort Wayne International. She's not home more than a few hours a week," Santana explains, suddenly feeling foolish for having brought it up. She stumbles through the rest. "So don't tell me just because Brittany likes crawling into my bed at night and feeling me up a little, I don't know what missing my family means."

"Wait, you're sleeping with Brittany?"

The entire room chooses that exact moment to fall silent. Puck is between songs, Mike and Brittany's laughter has died down, and Rachel is standing open-mouthed at the entrance of the living room with a tray of drinks in her hands. And Quinn. Stupid Quinn has to go and practically screech it like a dying cat. A _nasally_ dying cat.

As though deciding that she hasn't made the moment awkward enough, Quinn continues, "Like, _sleeping_ sleeping. With Brittany."

Santana groans. There is no god.

She'd figured that Quinn was well aware of this fact, especially since the blonde had basically outed them the day after sectionals at Puck's house, but apparently not. Santana catches Brittany's eye, but Brittany quickly looks away.

Santana tries to appear inconspicuous, which is pretty damn hard when the whole room is staring expectantly at her. "I thought you knew…"

"No! I knew she slept over a lot, and I always thought you had a thing for her, but—" Quinn turns to the rest of the room. "Am I the only one who didn't know about this?"

Mike slowly raises his hand. "I knew."

Santana is immediately _horrified_. The bus ride to sectionals. Mike turning around and catching them in the act. Shit.

"Brittany told me," Mike continues.

Santana does a double-take. "Wait, what?"

Brittany mistakes Santana's confusion as disapproval. "Mike's my best friend, aside from you," she explains. "He won't tell anyone."

"Yeah, I can keep a secret," Mike reassures.

"Well, I for one think that this is a wonderful development. My dads will be ecstatic to hear that the gay and lesbian community in Lima is growing. This is the perfect opportunity to revisit my proposition for a Gay-Lesb-All at McKinley High."

"We're not gay," Santana quickly objects. "I still fuck guys."

Puck quirks an eyebrow in Santana's direction, and it looks like skepticism, but Santana ignores him. She _has_ slept with guys. The fact that none of them were any good compared to Brittany is not the point. And what is this, twenty fucking questions?

"Since when?" Quinn narrows her eyes. "You guys didn't—while I was still a Cheerio?"

Brittany bites down on a smile, and Santana's cheeks get hot.

"Looks like we weren't great friends after all," Santana snipes.

" _When_?" Quinn demands.

Finn and Matt clamor inside, shivering from the cold.

"What's everyone up to?" Matt asks absentmindedly, brushing snow off the football in his hands.

"Brittany and Santana are doing the nasty," Puck replies, smiling a little at Santana. Stupid fuck.

Finn suspends his quest to shoot daggers in Puck and Quinn's general direction long enough to smile crookedly at Brittany. "Awesome."

All things considered, the news goes over pretty well. The guys all seem to be waiting for them to start going at it right on Rachel's floor, Quinn is counting on her fingers, probably trying to figure out whether she's ever shared a room with them while something inappropriate was going on, and Rachel just looks generally pleased with the whole situation.

Brittany is smiling though, so it's not the worst Christmas party Santana's ever been to, even when Rachel pulls out Scrabble and pairs Santana with Puck, who spends the rest of the night trying to spell the word 'dyke'.


	4. Chapter 4

Sleeping with Finn is not the brightest idea Santana's ever had. To be fair, it isn't her idea, but still.

When the thing with Brittany becomes public knowledge around McKinley High, it doesn't really do anything awful to Santana's reputation, contrary to what she'd thought. Guys think it's pretty hot, and girls are more curious than anything else. They take some heat from Karofsky, but Santana's pretty sure it's about being in Glee, not the maybe-gay thing, and anyway, he's a stupid son of a bitch. Even Coach Sylvester doesn't seem to care, like a 'don't ask, don't tell' sort of deal.

Coach is more interested in the downfall of Glee, and finding out about Brittany and Santana's ambiguous sexuality only seems to give her more ammunition.

That's how they end up going on a date together with Finn, and why Brittany suggests that Santana sleep with him to bolster her rep and satisfy Coach Sylvester and her crazy Madonna worship. Santana has seen the special perks Quinn had gotten as captain of the Cheerios. Perks that she wants for herself. She's worked too hard to let this opportunity slip away.

So she does it with Finn. And then wolfs down a cheeseburger. All in a day's work. She can practically taste the extra tanning privileges coming her way.

Santana gets home a little past one. Judging by the car in the driveway, her mom is actually home for the first time in a week, and ugh, she does not have the energy to deal with this. At least she doesn't smell like a brewery.

She slips in quietly, hoping her mother is already in bed, but no such luck. The dark-haired woman sitting at the kitchen table looks up at the sound of the front door. To Santana's surprise, Brittany is sitting at the other side of the table in full sleepwear, munching on a taquito.

"Oh, Santana," her mother says, rising from her seat.

"Mama," Santana replies quietly.

"Mija, why are you home so late?"

Santana peeks at Brittany. "I, uh—"

"Science project," Brittany answers around a mouthful of tortilla. Their eyes meet, and Santana looks down. "Santana's partner Finn? He's kind of dumb, so it takes them a long time to get stuff done."

"Yeah." Santana forces a smile. "Science project. Lost track of time."

Santana's mother walks up to Santana and draws her into an embrace. Santana's arms instinctively wrap around the woman who is mostly a stranger, and Santana suddenly feels young. So incredibly young, and a string of words claw at the back of her throat. Words about being abandoned, and wanting so much more than these fleeting moments. Words like _I miss you_ , and _please love me_. Words that make her feel fragile and pathetic for even thinking them. She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows them like she always does. There is no place for weakness.

Santana pulls away from her mother's arms, feeling Brittany's eyes on her. "I'm going to head to bed," she says softly, backing away. " _Buenas noches_ , Mama."

Santana hates the way her absentee mother can make her feel so tender and vulnerable, jumping in and out of her life. Most of the time, she deals with it fine, but tonight, every emotion feels magnified a thousand times. And maybe it's that she's just whored herself out to a cabbage patch kid for extra spa sessions, or that Brittany had bore witness to the whole exchange, but it's suddenly tough to even breathe. She hasn't felt like this in years.

Though it's late, Santana takes a quick shower to lose Finn's scent and to calm herself down. She manages to do one. As she's drying herself off, there's a knock at the bathroom door.

"San," is all the voice on the other side says.

Santana wraps the towel tightly around her torso and pulls open the door. Brittany slips in, puts down the toilet cover and sits. She watches Santana towel herself off for a few minutes, eyes roaming the length of Santana's body. Santana pulls on a pair of boyshorts and slips into an oversized Pink Floyd tee.

When Santana takes out her hairdryer and it whirrs to action, Brittany stands up and moves behind Santana, taking the hairdryer from her. She begins running the jet of hot air back and forth along Santana's damp locks.

"Maybe you should tell her," Brittany says into her ear.

Santana turns her head slightly. "Tell who what?"

"Tell your mom that you want her around more."

"I don't." Santana looks back at the mirror, watching their reflections. "I get to do whatever the hell I want all the time," she continues. "It's like a teenager's ultimate dream."

"Santana," Brittany admonishes gently.

Santana shrugs, softening. "This is what she wants to do. She gets to travel, and seniority is a big deal for flight attendants; she's finally making decent money. She won't be able to pay all the bills if she switches to some entry-level paper-pushing job and starts living at here again. We're a single-income home, Brittany."

Brittany is gentle with Santana's hair as she moves the hairdryer slowly across it. "Family is important."

"You're never home with yours," Santana points out even though she knows it's untrue. Brittany spends a lot of time with her, but the blonde has never been neglectful of her family. It's not like she's missing out on much at night when everyone's sleeping.

"Because you need me more," Brittany explains quietly, breath close to Santana's ear.

Santana's eyes harden. "I'm not a fucking charity case."

"I didn't say that."

Santana whips around, beads of water spraying onto the front of Brittany's top. She pushes the hairdryer out of her face, a misguided rage burning up inside her. "Is that what this is all about? You hang off my arm because you feel _sorry_ for me? I'm not gonna go and kill myself if I don't have you around, Britt."

Brittany places the hairdryer down on the counter. Santana reaches over to flip it off and immediately wishes she hadn't. The sudden silence is stifling, and Santana's heart starts to pound painfully in her chest.

Santana exhales. "I didn't mean that," she says, sliding her hand across Brittany's cheek.

Brittany takes a step back, pulling away from Santana's touch, and Santana's heart nearly curls into itself. Santana drops her hand to her side and searches out Brittany's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Santana murmurs, hating the tiny quiver that creeps into her voice. "I just—I say stupid shit I don't mean sometimes. I need you, okay? Like, a lot." Santana's hand slips around Brittany's, and she doesn't pull away this time. Santana breathes a quiet sigh of relief. "You are so good to me, Britt, and most of the time, I don't even deserve it."

Brittany doesn't say another word, just picks up the hairdryer, turns it on, and runs it patiently over Santana's hair until every strand is dry.

Brittany stays quiet even as they brush their teeth together and crawl into bed, bodies touching under the covers.

Santana curls into Brittany, tucking her head under Brittany's chin. Brittany's arm folds over Santana's midsection, pulling her close. Sometimes, it feels like this is all Santana is ever going to need for the rest of her life. Just Brittany. Fuck everyone else.

"How was your date with Finn?" Brittany finally asks, voice low.

Santana closes her eyes. "It was okay. Swiped his v-card." She shifts slightly against Brittany. "Not that I'm surprised, but the sex kind of sucked."

Brittany's hand is sliding under Santana's shirt when Santana stops her.

"My mom's in the next room," Santana whispers, her body reacting to Brittany's touch anyway.

Brittany palms her way up Santana's back, her hand coming to rest against Santana's shoulder blade. And then she stops and just holds Santana there.

"I love you," Brittany murmurs, and it's so soft that it's not like all those other times she says it, mostly when Santana lets Brittany cheat off her Spanish test or have the last Sour Patch Kid. It makes Santana's heart twist in her chest, and she nearly sobs at the realization that she's wanted so much and for so long to hear those words from someone – _anyone_ – and have them mean it, really _mean_ it like Brittany does now.

"I love you too," Santana chokes out, and in the comfort of Brittany's arms, she adds, "I only wish I knew how to show you."

"You're doing good, San," Brittany reassures her.

"I—no, not like you do." Santana presses a quick kiss to Brittany's collarbone, almost apologetic.

"But if we were the same, we'd be twins," Brittany argues, "and we couldn't have sex anymore. That would be horrible."

Santana smiles against Brittany's neck. "Yeah, it would."

Brittany shifts so that she and Santana are at eyelevel, and their lips meet in a slow, lingering kiss. Santana slips a leg between Brittany's thighs, and Brittany makes a low whimpering sound at the back of her throat.

Santana pulls away, just slightly. "Remember when we were eight, and I pushed you and you skinned your knee?" she asks suddenly.

"Yeah," Brittany replies, "why did you do that?"

Santana plays with the hem of Brittany's camisole. "Because I was a bully. You were different though. You never cried."

"I don't know why. I'm pretty sure it hurt."

Santana's hand slides under Brittany's cami, and she tugs it over Brittany's midsection, exposing skin. When Brittany doesn't stop her, Santana nudges Brittany's arms and pulls the entire thing over her head. Brittany shakes it off her arms and tosses it aside.

Santana slithers lower, burying herself underneath the covers, and she leaves a trail of kisses down Brittany's chest, between her breasts, over her abdomen, across her navel. Brittany pushes the sheets off a little to give Santana more room to breathe. Santana hooks her thumbs over the waistband of Brittany's pajama bottoms and tugs lightly.

"I thought you said your mom was in the next room," Brittany says with a small, teasing smile.

Santana presses her mouth to Brittany's hipbone. "She's probably asleep already."

"And if she's not? Or if she wakes up?"

"I need you, Brittany," Santana says, and the words come out more urgently than she'd planned.

Brittany lifts her hips off the bed so that Santana can pull off her pants, and she takes Brittany's underwear along with them. Brittany kicks the clothes away, leaving her completely nude, and Santana takes in the sight of her. It's rare that she gets to see Brittany – _all_ of Brittany – because they're usually all about getting off as quickly as possible, and that's not exactly conducive to getting naked.

"You're so gorgeous," Santana exhales, pressing a kiss to each of Brittany's thighs. "Have I ever told you that?"

Brittany doesn't say anything, just breathes heavily and reaches for Santana. Santana laces her fingers through Brittany's. With her other hand, Santana tugs at one of Brittany's legs, bending it upward, and she lifts herself to plant a kiss on Brittany's knee.

"Sorry," Santana murmurs against the smooth skin over Brittany's kneecap. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"It's okay," Brittany whispers, voice cracking a little when Santana's lips travel up along her inner thigh.

Santana squeezes Brittany's hand as she parts Brittany's legs and presses her mouth to Brittany's clit, tongue darting out to swipe across moist lips. The first taste of Brittany very nearly drives Santana insane, and she has to pace herself. Brittany moans, arching up to Santana's mouth, and Santana prepares two fingers at Brittany's entrance and pushes them in, filling her.

"Santana," Brittany groans.

Santana sucks lightly at Brittany's clit, her fingers finding an even rhythm, and Brittany's hand comes to rest at the top of Santana's head. Santana strokes deep. Over and over, and she wants this to be good for Brittany, wants to show everything she's so awful at verbalizing. Brittany is the one with the soft words and gentle touches; Santana feels so out of her skin when she tries to string together an affectionate sentence. But this. This, Santana knows. She's never felt more comfortable than she does now, mouth between Brittany's legs, pleasuring her. Brittany starts to squirm, and Santana picks up the pace, using tongue and teeth to work Brittany up up up.

Brittany's body shudders, her cry muffled by her own palm. Her other hand tightens around Santana's hair. Santana grunts in pain but she keeps her lips attached to Brittany, gently helping her down.

The look in Brittany's eyes when she finally opens them is mesmerizing. She loosens her grip on Santana's hair, tenderly smoothing it back down. Santana's fingers slide out, and she kisses her way back up to Brittany's lips.

Brittany pulls lazily at Santana's shirt, and it bunches around Santana's chest. Santana shrugs out of it, tossing it aside, and Brittany immediately ducks down to brush her tongue across one of Santana's breasts. The wet heat of Brittany's mouth gliding over Santana's nipple makes Santana's head spin with arousal, and her hand grips Brittany's shoulder, anchoring her.

"I love you," Santana says, the words tasting less and less foreign against her lips. "I love you."

"I know, I know, I know," Brittany repeats over and over, her voice muffled against Santana's skin, and Santana doesn't think she's ever seen Brittany looking at her with such clarity.

Brittany's hands are at Santana's hips when Santana pulls her up. "Just kiss me tonight."

And Brittany, ever-compliant, settles against Santana's body and does exactly that until they both fall asleep, limbs loosely intertwined.

\--

The first time a boy tells her that he loves her, Santana is seven, and the admission comes with a bouquet of dandelions and a shy, gap-toothed grin. Santana punches him so hard in the face that he gets a nosebleed.

The first time a boy tells her that he loves her and actually kind of means it, Santana is thirteen, and the admission comes with messy kisses and a stray hand on her bare thigh. Santana loses her virginity to him that night but dumps him a week later when he doesn't stop saying it.

The point is that Santana? Does not deal with any of this touchy-feely lovey-dovey shit very well. Or like, at all.

Puck never once tells her that he loves her, and maybe that's why she'd kept him around for so long. She works better that way. Sex is just sex, and she's never known or wanted it any differently.

When Brittany tells her that she loves her and really, really means it, it makes Santana feel _alive_. And when Santana says it back, she's never meant anything more in her life. After the feeling settles in though, she is absolutely terrified. Having sex with another girl, she can get away with by citing hormones and hooking up with a guy once in a while. But falling in love with another girl? Wanting to quit not only guys but other girls too? That's an entirely different story, one that Lima does not take kindly to, and she's still got two and a half years left in this joint.

So Santana panics and calls Puck. He tells her to come over.

Santana doesn't know how that's going to help – she can't even have sex with him because she doesn't want to do it at her house, and Quinn is always at his – but she shows up anyway. Quinn lets her in and leads her into the rec room.

Puck is seated in a recliner, a Playstation controller in his hands. He looks up briefly when they enter.

"Where's Brittany?" he asks.

"How should I know? We're not fucking conjoined twins."

"Jesus," Puck mutters, turning back to sniping bad guys on his TV. "How's the view from inside your asshole? Say hi to your rectum for me."

Quinn makes a face at Puck and turns to Santana. "You guys have a fight or something?"

Santana slumps down onto an ottoman. "No."

Quinn nudges Santana aside and sits beside her. "Then… why are you pissed?"

"I'm not," Santana replies evenly, fist clenching around the fabric of her seat.

Puck grins. "Brittany not giving it up to you enough? 'Cause Puckzilla is always open for business."

Quinn reaches over and slaps Puck hard across the back of his head, and Puck's controller falls to the ground. By the time Puck manages to pick it back up, his game is already playing doom music, and a big bloody 'game over' sign spans the screen.

Puck rubs the back of his head. "Shit, Quinn. What the hell?"

"Santana is having girl trouble. We do not offer to have sex with her."

"Will you two both can it?" Santana stands up. "Forget it. This was a bad idea."

Quinn reaches up and pulls Santana back down. "Come on, Santana. You're obviously upset about something."

Puck and Quinn are both looking expectantly at her, and she doesn't think she's ever felt more self-conscious in her life. But for better or for worse, these are her friends, even Tubby McPreggo, and what Santana really needs right now, other than a shot of tequila, is for someone to listen to her. Usually, that's Brittany, but she can't exactly talk to Brittany about this.

"This thing with Britt—it's getting… serious." And ugh, Santana nearly winces at how lame that comes out sounding.

Quinn and Puck exchange looks.

Puck puts down his video game. "So like what? You're going lez full-time?"

Santana hesitates. "I can't do that. I'd get so much shit for it."

"What are you saying?" Quinn asks. "Your reputation is more important than Brittany?"

Santana's chest tightens. "No, I'm just being realistic, okay? What are the chances this is actually going to pan out past high school?"

"Isn't Brittany worth the risk?" Quinn looks sympathetic. "I don't really need to call up Rachel and get her to come sing some more Celine Dion, do I?"

"What are you even talking about?" Santana looks briefly at Puck, who is watching her quietly. She straightens up, even as she feels small under the scrutiny. "I'm not giving up everything to chase a high school fling."

"Santana," Quinn reprimands gently. "She's not—"

"No," Santana interrupts before Quinn can finish that sentence. Santana's cheeks start to burn, but she toughs it out. "I have to look out for myself first."

"Brittany's always looked out for you," Quinn points out.

"Brittany can't tell her left from her right," Santana deflects.

Quinn shakes her head, undeterred. "Doesn't matter. She's always looked out for you."

Santana swallows hard at that. "I'm not having this conversation anymore," she says, standing up and turning to leave. Quinn doesn't stop her this time.

Santana hadn't known what exactly to expect when she'd admitted to Puck and Quinn that she was "serious" about Brittany, which, ugh, isn't the most eloquent thing Santana's ever come up with. Maybe she'd been waiting for Quinn to tell her that nothing's worth as much as her rep, which she hadn't, or for Puck to offer to have sex with her, which he had.

Santana doesn't have sex with Puck, but she does make out with him a few times. He actually looks a little guilty going into it, and Santana marks one off on the decent-guy column. But Puck is still Puck, and Santana knows exactly what makes him weak. So they mess around a little. Santana doesn't enjoy it at all. Actually, she's pretty sure she had more fun that one time Coach put them on a diet that involved nothing but egg whites with a dash of pepper spray.

She feels pretty shitty about it afterwards, especially when she thinks about Brittany, but Puck is like some messed up safety net for her, and it's the only way she knows. Because Puck is safe, and Puck is easy, and Puck doesn't make Santana feel like she's fucking _flying_ without a parachute. Santana is never going to fall in love with Puck, and it won't hurt when they inevitably decide to call it quits again. It probably won't even damage their friendship when all's said and done, because she's Santana Lopez and he's Noah Puckerman, and they both have a pretty clear understanding of what this is.

Puck is a band-aid solution at best, but it's what Santana can handle. It's _all_ Santana can handle.

The first few times, Quinn smiles tightly at her every time she shows up, but the blonde doesn't say anything. Santana almost wishes Quinn would punch her in the face or something. She probably needs it.

About a week in, Quinn stops her at the Puckermans' front door.

"Puck isn't home," Quinn says, her words marked with concern and a hint of frustration. "His mom dragged him and his sister out to some Jewish thing."

Wordlessly, Santana turns to leave.

"You want to come in?" Quinn offers.

"Not really," Santana replies, but she stops moving.

Quinn steps outside and closes the door behind her. "Santana," she broaches softly, "what are you _doing_?"

Santana pivots to face her, defenses rising. "Going home. Some of us still have one." She doesn't even know why she adds the last part because saying it doesn't make her feel any better.

Quinn doesn't flinch. "Don't play dumb. I mean with Puck."

"Nothing I haven't done before and frankly none of your fucking business."

"What about Brittany?" Quinn asks gently, sharply contrasting Santana's edgy tone.

Even though Santana immediately reacts to the sound of Brittany's name, she shrugs and forces indifference. "Getting some from two different people; you'd know a little something about that." Santana glances pointedly at Quinn's baby bump, but the blonde remains unfazed by Santana's digs.

"Something changed though," Quinn points out. "Isn't that what you said?"

"No, okay?" Santana clenches her jaw and turns toward her car. "I'm not going through this again."

Quinn lets it go. Not that Santana is giving her much of a chance to press the issue, because she's out of that driveway in thirty seconds flat.

Santana doesn't act any differently with Brittany. She kisses her with the same intensity, touches her with the same urgency, and when Brittany ends every night with a quiet _I love you_ , Santana echoes the words and lets herself one moment to feel them before closing herself off.

She doesn't try to hide the Puck thing from Brittany or anything. Brittany knows. But she still smiles and laughs and loves, and neither of them ever brings it up. In short, nothing really changes, aside from Santana's self-destructive tendencies.

Santana manages to convince herself that it's not cheating or whatever, because she'd never agreed to anything exclusive, and besides—she doesn't actually have another point, but the lack of exclusivity thing seems like enough. And Brittany's the one who'd told her to go after Finn, right? Right.

It's almost like Santana is waiting for something to happen.

\--

Something _does_ happen: Puck shaves his mohawk.

After he gets tossed in the dumpster by Jewfro and co, he starts chasing Mercedes. _Mercedes_. What the hell? Santana isn't jealous; she just doesn't understand something, so she corners Puck one afternoon before Glee rehearsal.

"What's the deal with you going after Mercedes? Why don't you just tell everyone you're with me? It'd be way more convincing, and you wouldn't have to date a fat chick."

"Look, Santana. Everyone knows you're at least half gay. Spreading the word that I'm still hooking up with you? Will just make me look like your gay beard, and I'm not down with that." Puck softens a little. "I think this'll be good for you," he adds.

Santana frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Making out with someone who isn't into it is about as fun as getting your balls cut off. I just went along with it because Quinn's been rejecting all my advances, and you're still really hot, especially now that you're into chicks." Puck grins a little at that. "But I know you, Santana," he continues. "You're all about putting yourself first, which, you know, is cool. But as your friend, I can't act like I don't know what this is anymore, just for a few lousy make-out sessions."

Santana juts out her chin. "I have no idea what you're—"

Puck stops her. "Go work things out with Brittany."

Santana tries not to look surprised, but honestly, the whole thing hits her pretty hard. How far has she fallen to have skirt-chasing Puck preach to her about commitment? It's almost embarrassing. Mostly though, she thinks of Brittany, and her heart aches a little. All she really wants to do is kiss Brittany, only Brittany, and be able to do it anywhere she wants.

Shit. She's so fucking in love with this girl, and no amount of random hookups born out of panic and a deep, misguided fear is going to change that. Even Puck sees it, and he's about as shortsighted as the neighborhood hobo. _Shit_.

"You and me," Puck continues, "we both know what this is. Look, S, I'd light myself on fire before I'd admit this to anyone else, but I'd snap a motherfucking neck for you. You know that. But I can't help you do this anymore."

"Don't act like you were doing me a favor," Santana retorts, even though she's kind of touched by Puck's admission.

"I wasn't." He half-smirks. "Let me know how it goes with Brittany."

Santana doesn't make any effort to move. She's not ready for any of this.

"You want a hug or something?" Puck offers, biting back a grin.

"Get out of my sight, Puckerman," Santana growls, but a small grin plays on her lips.

Puck laughs. "There's my girl."

So, okay. Santana has to talk to Brittany. She feels naked without an actual plan, but screw everything. Maybe she prefers nudity when it comes to Brittany.

Santana heads to the choir room, but before she gets a chance to approach Brittany, Kurt tries to 'no homo' by dressing up like a lumberjack and grunting out Mellencamp like he's just swallowed a fistful of sand. And Brittany… asks him out? It kind of blindsides Santana, except that she probably shouldn't be as worked up about it as she gets, especially since she's the one who'd wordlessly okayed the whole "sharing" thing by attaching herself to Puck at the first sign of something real.

"You and _Kurt_?" Santana asks as they're walking back to their lockers. "You do know he's as gay as the day is long, right?"

"He's cute," Brittany replies with a short shrug, "and he always smells really good. I think he puts coconut milk in his hair."

"He's into dicks. Last time I checked, you don't have one."

Brittany stops suddenly, spinning Santana around to face her. "Stop it, Santana. I don't tell you who you can make out with, so stop telling me what I can and can't do. Why do you even care? You've got Puck."

The full force of Brittany's silent, pent-up rage hits Santana all at once, and her head starts to spin. Brittany is never angry. Never ever ever. Santana doesn't even know how to react to it.

"Not anymore," Santana manages. "I'm stopping. Puck's dating Mercedes, and—I only want you, Britt."

Brittany's eyes flash, but they are still piercing. "Yeah, for now," is all she says before she leaves.

Brittany doesn't show up in Santana's bed that night.

Santana gets into a spat with Mercedes the next day and makes it look good.

Brittany is not there that night either, or the one after that. Santana misses her more than anything, but Brittany is hanging off Kurt's arm all the time, and that spoonful of medicine tastes damn bitter going down.

Santana's never known Brittany to hold grudges, but Brittany makes no effort to speak to Santana more than absolutely necessary. For the first time in as long as Santana can remember, she's unsure where she stands with Brittany.

Puck offers to kidnap Brittany and lock them together in a room so Santana can talk to her, but Santana has no idea what she'd even say. She just wants to hold Brittany and stroke Brittany's hair and feel Brittany's weight pressing down on her. She doesn't even care how fucking pathetic that sounds.

But she's only ever been good at apologies because she's always known Brittany to be receptive to them. Now, she isn't so sure, and no way is she going to put herself out there again to be shut down. So she steels herself and bides her time. All it does is reinforce that she has to look out for herself first.

Neither Puck and Mercedes nor Kurt and Brittany last until the end of the week, but other than that, nothing changes. Despite being in Cheerios and Glee together, as well as having their lockers next to each other, Brittany does a smashing job of avoiding Santana altogether. Not that Santana is making much of an effort to run into Brittany either, but she's become so used to Brittany _wanting_ to be around her that she cannot even process what to do now that Brittany doesn't.

The thing about Brittany is that she loves everyone, even when she's insulting their appearance or laughing along at something mean Santana says. Brittany never dwells on the flaws, and she smiles with such intensity and authenticity that nobody ever holds those moments against her. So when she starts distancing herself from Santana, Brittany drifts easily to Mike and Matt and Finn, Kurt and Mercedes and Quinn, Artie and Tina, even Rachel, and all of them seem more relieved than anything else that they no longer have to put up with Santana to bask in Brittany's sunshine.

Santana is miserable, but hell if she'll let anyone know. Quinn though, she starts to look really concerned about the whole situation, and Santana catches her talking to Brittany a few times, casting cautious glances Santana's way. Santana is actually a little bitter about it. In truth, if their falling out becomes angry and messy, everyone would easily side with Brittany, except maybe Puck.

Quinn isn't the only one who is worried.

Rachel corners Santana. "I am asking this as kindly as possible: Please sort out your homosexual disagreements with Brittany before it starts severely and irreversibly affecting the chemistry of the entire Glee Club, thus ruining our chances at regionals and further, my life."

Kurt is next. "Normally I would not get myself involved in any of your juvenile drama, but I couldn't help but notice—lately, you have been exceptionally… bitchy, for lack of a more appropriate term. Even for you. This only concerns me because if you must insist on scowling so much, I have just the face balm to help counteract the wrinkles that will certainly and prematurely emerge around your lips. You have lovely bone structure, Santana; it would serve you well to take care of your skin. Or just frown less."

Puck offers sex again, but only in jest. He sneaks a six-pack of Bud into Santana's room and gently stops her as she's woozily reaching for her fourth bottle.

"Cockblock," Santana mutters, moving to lie down on her bed.

"Hey, three each is fair," Puck counters, even though he's only nursing his first and appears to have no intention of getting remotely drunk.

"Why are you even bringing me alcohol?" Santana grunts.

Puck shrugs. "You look like you could use it."

"Thanks," Santana replies dryly, shutting her eyes.

Puck puts down his drink. "You wanna talk about this? Brittany?"

Santana opens one eye to look at him. "You're the last person I would've expected that question from. And no. I'm not nearly drunk enough for that."

"I'm just saying. Quinn and everyone else—they're all her friend first, but I got your back, and if you happen to be feeling generous, toss in a few details about the hot girl-on-girl action."

Santana chuckles. "You're such a dick sometimes."

Puck grins. "Can't fault a guy for trying, right?" He watches Santana for a few minutes before continuing, "You came to me about it that time Britt spilled about you guys, remember? Your psycho phone call in the middle of the night?"

Santana's head spins, the force of the memory magnified by the alcohol in her bloodstream. "Yeah, what about it?"

Puck barely looks up, his shoulders rising in a shrug. "You trusting me with that, it was cool, that's all."

Santana lets out a dry chuckle. "Going soft on me there, Puckerman?"

"I'm just saying," Puck replies with a small smile. "I did pretty well that time, considering you woke me up at three a.m. and didn't promise me sex."

Santana snorts. "You want a gold star or something?"

"Just saying," Puck repeats. He tilts his head to study her, and quietly adds, "Santana, you're absolutely miserable without her."

"I'm fine," Santana groans, burying her face into her pillow. It still smells like Brittany, and she can't help but breathe everything in, even as she chides herself for being weak. But the scent is faint, and she feels hollow. Santana quickly sits up, needing to get away.

Puck pops open another bottle of beer and holds it out to Santana. "Here."

"You sure you don't want to turn this into another third-grade math lesson?" Santana asks, sarcasm dripping from her words.

Puck pulls his lips into a straight line, but his eyes flicker with amusement. "Just take it."

Santana reaches out and grabs the beer from Puck, bringing the mouth of the bottle hungrily to her lips. She craves the burn of hard liquor gliding down her throat, but at this point, she'll take whatever she can get.

"Hey, easy," Puck cautions, but Santana chugs the rest down and hands Puck an empty bottle.

"Bring vodka next time," she complains. "Then maybe I'd actually have a shot at getting drunk without needing to piss my pants."

He shakes his head. "I wouldn't need to if you just manned the hell up. What are you so afraid of?"

Santana bristles. "I'm not afraid of _shit_."

"Santana." Puck stares her down. "This is fucking pathetic."

"She doesn't want me anymore, okay?" Santana snaps, chest tightening. "She's never fucking needed me."

Puck tilts his head, and he actually holds down the sympathetic look without appearing like a jackass. "You don't know that. Have you even talked to her?"

Santana covers her eyes as she leans back against her headboard. "Were those words too big for your pea brain? She _does not want me_."

"But you want her, right?"

"So fucking badly," Santana mutters, and damn it, she must be drunker than she'd thought.

"Then go get her," Puck proposes like it's completely obvious. He pauses, almost expectantly, but when Santana says nothing, he pushes on. "Why are you being a pussy about this? When has _anything_ stopped you from getting whatever the hell you want?"

"She's different," Santana argues, and it aches to even think about how true those words are. "I can't just—bully my way around her. And I don't want to."

"Have you ever thought that maybe _she's_ the one who isn't sure how _you_ feel?" Puck asks suddenly. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're the one who blew her off first."

Santana takes a breath and looks at Puck. "Shit. I need to get her back," she says quietly.

"I know," Puck says solemnly. With a straight face, he adds, "You're kind of an insufferable bitch without her."

Santana holds back a grin. "Asshole."

Puck smirks and rises from his seat. "I should go and make sure Quinn and my mom haven't offed each other yet. Quinn's been craving whole dill pickles dipped in ice cream and wrapped in bacon."

Santana grimaces. "Oh, _gross_."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Puck leans down, bringing his face close to Santana's, and he playfully puckers his lips. "So how about a kiss goodnight?"

Santana laughs and shoves him away. "Fuck off."

Puck grins and straightens up. "Go chase some hot dancer tail. You gonna be okay?"

Santana nods. "Thanks, Puck."

"Catch you later, Lopez," he says before leaving the room, taking the six-pack with him.

Despite all of Puck's depravity, Santana is really glad to have someone on her side. She's actually kind of touched Puck had even thought to bring her beer and ask how she's doing, because she knows that's not Puck's deal. It strangely doesn't freak her out.

Santana stares at the ceiling long after Puck's clunky truck pulls out of her driveway, her head swimming with memories of Brittany.


	5. Chapter 5

Santana had been so sure she'd have the guts to buckle down and 'chase some hot dancer tail', as Puck had so eloquently put it, but she'd been trying so hard not to watch Brittany at all for two weeks that the moment she actually looks at the blonde properly, all she sees is long legs and piercing blue eyes, and her breath catches in her throat. She decides to give herself until the end of the day to chill the fuck out before she makes a complete fool of herself stumbling all over the place in front of the entire school. She's Santana Lopez, for god's sake, and she'd better start acting like her again.

Santana figures she'll catch Brittany at the end of Glee practice, but three-thirty comes and Brittany skips into the choir room, laughter in her eyes. She sidles up to Mike, and the two start chuckling to themselves about something.

Santana knows, okay? She knows full well that Mike and Brittany are a hundred percent platonic, and that they're really great friends because they're both freakishly good dancers and Mike's kind and patient and a little goofy (apparently? Santana doesn't really know him) while Brittany's fun and energetic and the brightest ray of sunshine, so it all fits. It still makes Santana's stomach churn to think that she's so easily replaceable.

Brittany drags Mike closer to Puck and his guitar so that the two of them can improvise a little dance-off before Mr. Schue and his blinding enthusiasm show up. Santana watches them for a few minutes and decides to give it another day.

One day becomes two, then three, and Santana loses her resolve.

Puck tries to ask her what's up, but she shuts him down. Quinn powers herself into Santana's car on the fourth day, a Monday afternoon, and basically follows Santana home like a hobo. A big, pregnant hobo.

"Thought you'd like some company," Quinn chirps cheerfully as she buckles herself into the passenger's seat, and ugh, Santana is already not into it.

"One word about you-know-what and I'm kicking you out," Santana grumbles as she pulls out of the parking lot. "Not even stopping the car. Just a bruise on your side the shape of my shoeprint and a broken window."

Quinn smiles. "Got it."

The ride to Santana's is quiet. Quinn fiddles with the radio an irritating number of times, but Santana doesn't say anything, just tightens her grip on the steering wheel and keeps driving. Mercifully, her street soon comes into view. She pulls into her driveway and cuts the engine.

She glances at Quinn. "Why are you even here?"

"To keep you company, like I said," Quinn replies as she unclips her seatbelt. "You look like you could use a friend."

"What I could use is some pot," Santana mutters as she reaches for her car door.

Quinn does the same and follows Santana to the front door, but Santana spins around and glowers at Quinn.

"Look, I know you think you're doing me some kind of favor," Santana snipes, "or you're trying to whip up some good karma with the big dude upstairs, but I'm really not desperate for company."

"San, come on." Quinn holds out her hands defensively. "Don't be a bitch. I'll leave you alone if you really want. This just gives me a good excuse to get out of Puck's house for a few hours. His mom drives me nuts and his sister is pretty much psycho. Let me sit in your house and like, do homework. I'll stay out of your way."

Without another word, Santana unlocks her door and lets Quinn in. Quinn kicks off her shoes and immediately heads for the living room. Santana follows behind and watches as Quinn sets her bag down next to the coffee table and unzips it.

Santana frowns. "What are you doing?"

Quinn looks up. "Building a treehouse, what does it look like?"

"Fuck you."

Quinn grins. "Actually, hot date with a set of geometry problems and a Spanish essay. Jealous?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Get your ass upstairs. There's a desk in my room, and I'll write your damn essay if you let me copy your geometry worksheet. I fucking hate triangles."

And that's how Santana finds herself sprawled on her stomach across her bed, typing away at Quinn's Spanish essay on her laptop while Quinn busies herself with perpendicular bisectors.

"Make some mistakes," Quinn requests, "or Mr. Schue's going to get suspicious."

"I know, Q, I've written Spanish essays for you before," Santana replies as she purposely misconjugates a verb. "Schuester's really gone off the deep end with this one. I mean, 'Should foreign language instruction begin in kindergarten?' That doesn't scream desperation or _anything_."

Quinn falls quiet, and Santana figures she's just concentrating on her geometry assignment until the blonde turns slightly in her seat.

"Brittany has the same assignment. She might need help."

Santana groans. "Real subtle, Fabray."

Quinn shrugs. "Just saying."

"Whatever, Chang's fluent," Santana points out as she types out another sentence, fingertips pounding roughly against the keyboard. "I'm sure he'll swoop right in and spit one out for her."

Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "You do know they're just friends, right? And that Brittany is totally gay?" She stares pointedly at Santana. "Totally gay for _you_?"

"And where did I say they weren't?" Santana fires back, artfully dodging the latter part of Quinn's comment. "I don't want in _your_ pants and I'm writing yours for you."

"Santana, this is pathetic," Quinn says flatly. She leaves her seat and climbs onto Santana's bed to sit next to her. "You think she's replaced you, don't you?" she asks softly. "Is that why you're avoiding her like the plague?"

"I'm not—" Santana clenches her jaw, chest unbearably tight. "I'm not avoiding her. For fuck's sake, Quinn, will you just drop it?"

Quinn is undeterred. "She misses you, you know."

"No she doesn't."

"San…"

Santana sits up, Spanish essay forgotten. "Are you and Puck conspiring to make my life one big uncomfortable hell? Because both of you are succeeding, and right now, you're kicking his ass by leaps and bounds."

Quinn smiles a little. "Puck's been going around patting himself on the back for being a good 'lesbro' so you know. Cut him some slack."

Santana makes a face. " _Lesbro_? Oh my god, how many times am I going to have to clarify that I'm not fucking gay?"

Quinn's smile only widens. "Oh yeah? Name one guy you'd rather sleep with than Brittany."

"Britt—Brittany doesn't count," Santana stammers.

"And why not?" Quinn asks, a touch of amusement in her tone.

"She's not like, any girl, okay?" Santana replies, and her heart aches a little. She shakes it off and glares at Quinn. "I'd never sleep with _you_."

Quinn grins. "Fair point."

"Are we done here? I have an essay to half-ass."

"We're just worried about you," Quinn says with a half-shrug. "Beyond your stupid commitment issues, you've known Brittany practically your whole life. That's got to count for something."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't, and I'm fine," Santana insists, pushing Quinn off the bed. "Go finish your math."

Quinn slides back to the desk and leaves Santana alone. Santana gives herself a moment to cool down before pulling her laptop closer and tapping out a few more sentences. The last half of the essay ends up error-ridden, which is perfect for Quinn's purposes, but honestly, Santana doesn't even make the mistakes on purpose.

\--

To say that Santana is surprised to see Mike Chang, in full football uniform, jogging up to her as she stretches near the bleachers before Cheerios practice is a huge understatement. To say that Santana is immediately irritated? Wholly true.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't wait for Santana to respond. "Listen, I know we don't really… talk, but Brittany is miserable."

Santana's heart jumps to her throat at the mere mention of her name. It's pathetic. She steels herself. "How is that my problem?" she asks, focusing on the pull of her hamstring as she brings her head down toward her outstretched knee.

"I know you guys are fighting, or whatever this thing is, but isn't she still your best friend?"

"She's got you, doesn't she?" Santana stands up straight and faces him, and an irrational rage boils at the pit of her stomach. "You go and make her feel better."

"She's upset _because_ of you." Mike crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you don't understand, and she's probably going to be mad I'm even telling you this, but she talks to me about you."

Santana rolls her eyes, even as her chest gets tight. "What could she possibly have to say about us?"

Mike's eyes narrow. "She's not an idiot. Maybe you should stop treating her like one."

"I don't treat her like an idiot," Santana replies angrily, turning to leave.

Mike follows behind her. "Then what was the whole deal with Puck?"

Santana keeps walking, further incensed by the fact that Mike apparently thinks he knows enough about her relationship with Brittany to be making judgments. "What about it?"

"You're jerking her around, Santana, and you need to knock it off."

Santana spins around, defenses rising. "I happen to like Puck. Just because she's exclusively into chicks and queers, doesn't mean I am."

Mike makes a face. "I can't believe you're being such a stubborn bitch."

Santana suppresses the urge to acquaint her knee with Mike's crotch. "Why the fuck are you even talking to me?"

"Because unlike you," he replies coolly, "I actually care about Brittany."

"Go care about her somewhere else," she snaps, knowing at the back of her mind that she's past the point of reason but also that she's utterly powerless to stop herself. "Better yet," Santana barrels on, "take her with you and show her exactly how much you 'care' about her."

Mike looks almost horrified. "Are you really that dense? I'd kill for that girl, but I'm not into her like that." He shakes his head, disappointment evident. "Obviously I'm wasting my time here because apparently, neither are you."

"I am!" Santana blurts out, her skin unbearably hot and suddenly confining.

Mike just stares at her, unflinching. "You do a hell of a job convincing her otherwise."

Santana's head starts to spin. "Convincing her of what? I haven't even _spoken_ to her in weeks."

"That's exactly my point," Mike maintains, his index finger coming dangerously close to Santana's face. "You haven't done _anything_ to show her you still want her."

"Two-way street, Chang," Santana fires back.

Mike just looks baffled. "Are you kidding me? You're telling me that the girl who's followed you around through hell and high water for the past nine years of your life _isn't doing enough to show you she wants you_? Damn, Lopez, I'd heard that you sucked at this, but now I'm completely embarrassed for you."

The realization is like a slushie to the face, and Santana swallows hard. She doesn't think she's ever wanted to turn into a blade of grass and disappear into the field more than she does now. Spend the rest of her life being cut down and stomped on. It'd be fitting punishment. Her head swims, and all she knows in that moment is the horrible, horrible ache in her chest.

"Let me make it easy for you," Mike offers. "Tell me what you think she should do. I mean, what do you _want_ from her?"

Santana looks down, stares at the large '28' painted across the front of Mike's jersey. Her cheeks burn with humiliation. "I—nothing. I just want her back," Santana replies, so quietly she can barely hear her own words.

Mike catches them just fine. "To do what, exactly?"

Santana hardens, eyes snapping back to Mike's face. "What the fuck are you implying?"

"That you have the emotional capacity of a piece of chewed gum," Mike answers frankly and unapologetically. "You want to sleep your way through the school, fine. You leave her out of it."

"I only want _her_ ," Santana spits out, "and I told her that, right before she went off to play house with Kurt the flaming homo."

"Give me a break. You're going to pin this on her and _Hummel_? What about you and Puck? You and Matt? Hell, you and Quinn for all I know. If I stand around here long enough, maybe you'd even give me a go."

Santana has never known Mike to be remotely malicious, but his words are pointed and his intent is clear. It riles Santana up. "Shut the fuck up, Chang. You don't know the first thing about me."

Mike remains maddeningly level-headed. "Just because you keep everything bottled up inside until some unfortunate soul looks at you the wrong way, doesn't mean Brittany does. Why else do you think I'm here? Not because you're a pleasant conversationalist, that's for sure."

"So, what? Brittany told you all my dirty little secrets and now you're here to rub it in?"

"I'm not interested in your shit, Santana," Mike retorts, sounding genuinely angry for the first time, "but when it starts upsetting Brittany, it becomes my problem too. You bowl over anyone else you want, but not Brittany. She deserves better than that. Better than you."

"Then maybe," Santana suggests, her words filling with spite, "she should just go and find someone better than me."

"Brittany doesn't want someone better. She's in love with _you_ ," Mike blurts out angrily, emphasis sharp. "Do you _get_ it now?"

Santana's blood turns to ice, and she has to will herself not to start sobbing right then and there as the words barrel into her with the force of a freight train. Of course. Of course ofcourseofcourse. She opens her mouth, and she wants to say a thousand things, all of them insufficient, but nothing comes out.

Mercifully, Mike isn't done. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, nor do I really care, but Brittany is my friend. You don't get to go around pissing on her because your mommy doesn't hug you enough."

"That's fucking low," Santana growls. Her voice trembles a little.

"Yeah, well. Not like you're the sparkling example of decency," Mike shoots back, and okay, Santana gives him that one. Mike continues, "I don't know what she sees in you – frankly, I think you're a complete asshole most of the time – but she's my girl. You fix this."

Santana stares at Mike, and she wants to hit him, shove him, punch him so hard she draws blood, but she doesn't do any of that. Her body is shaking with what she thinks is rage but quickly realizes is more like shame—a thick shame that constricts her and threatens to eat her alive. She's unprepared, and she almost wishes Mike would slug her across the face just so she can feel something beyond the hollow ache in her chest. For once in her life, she'd take the punishment sitting down.

Mike's words ring in her head, over and over, and all Santana wants in that moment is to hear Brittany's laugh, to _make_ Brittany laugh, and it hurts – it physically _hurts_ – to know that all this time, Brittany has been upset and the only thing Santana has done is wallow in her own goddamn misery. Worse, the whole thing is pretty much all Santana's fault. She feels like scum.

"I messed up," she admits quietly to nobody in particular.

Mike's features turn sympathetic. "I know you did, but she thinks it's all on her."

"No, she— _god_." Santana looks away, heart aching.

"Suck it up and talk to her," Mike instructs, giving Santana's shoulder a quick squeeze. "She's hurting too. Just remember that." He turns to leave. "See you around, Santana. Nice chatting with you." His tone is neither sarcastic nor resentful. Leave it to Mike to end the most uncomfortable conversation of Santana's life with a touch of courtesy.

"Hey, Chang!" Santana calls out after him. Mike turns back, and she looks at him with unease. "Thanks," she mutters, feeling more than a little on edge.

With an acknowledging nod, Mike jogs back to football practice across the field. Nearby, a few Cheerios have already started their warm-ups. Santana walks back to the bleachers and waits for Brittany to show.

As soon as she catches sight of Brittany, Santana's mouth goes dry, and shit. This whole thing has potential disaster written all over it. But Santana sucks it up. She has to. For Brittany. And well, for herself too, if she's being honest about it. Her palms get sweaty as she approaches, but she tries not to think about that. Or the fact that she hasn't so much as touched Brittany in any form except accidentally in almost three weeks. That's not exactly a lifetime or anything, but it's pretty much the longest she's ever been without Brittany, and the blonde is just standing there all skin and short Cheerios skirt, and damn it, Santana is in way over her head.

Santana catches up to Brittany before she's even figured out what to say. Brittany looks hesitantly at Santana with the bluest eyes, and Santana nearly word-vomits all over the place. But she holds it in and tries to play it cool.

"Britt, hey." And okay, so far so good.

Brittany's voice is small but sure. "Hi."

Santana wets her lips. Brittany slows to a stop halfway between the bleachers and where a small group of Cheerios have gathered and turns to Santana, as though waiting for something.

"I really need to talk to you," Santana broaches.

"About what?"

Santana's hand itches to hold Brittany's. She shakes it off. "Can we get out of here?"

Brittany motions toward the other Cheerios. "We have practice," she points out.

"After practice," Santana suggests. "My place?"

Brittany is still looking at the other cheerleaders when she says, "Santana, I can't do this anymore."

Santana's heart drops. "Do what? N—no sex, or anything like that," she says desperately, and Brittany immediately turns to stare intently at her. The look burns. "Britt, please," Santana tries again. "I just want to talk. Just talk, I promise."

Finally, Brittany nods. "Okay."

It is the longest Cheerios practice of Santana's entire existence. She is thrumming with anxiety, and she can barely concentrate on any of the routines. As she's being lifted to the top of the pyramid, her knees buckle, and she takes a hard tumble backwards into the arms of two spotters.

"Santana! Has your highly ambiguous sexuality caused you to spontaneously sprout horrifically oversized male genitalia, resulting in this pathetic excuse for a balancing act? Because I have one word for you: _castration_."

By the end of practice, Santana has been called every name under the sun, and she's pretty sure Coach is about to have a damn stroke, but she cannot even bring herself to be concerned about her position on the Cheerios because Brittany is walking up to her slowly, all long legs and cautiousness.

Brittany doesn't say anything, just follows Santana to the locker room to pick up their bags, and then to Santana's car, murmuring a quiet 'thanks' when Santana opens the door for her. Santana climbs into the driver's seat, snaps on her seatbelt, and pulls out of the student lot. She flicks on the radio – soft rock – to fill the stifling silence. The music is calming, and Santana loosens her grip around her steering wheel.

As she's turning into their street, the first notes of Aerosmith's _I Don't Want to Miss a Thing_ drift through the speakers, and Santana very nearly gets into a wreck trying to change the station and turn at the same time.

Brittany's hand is gentle on Santana's, stopping her, and Santana's skin burns at the brief contact. She can't help it, even as she thinks it's pathetic pathetic pathetic. As quickly as the touch comes, it's gone, and Brittany's hand returns to her lap. Santana tosses Brittany a curious glance.

Brittany shrugs. "I like the song," she offers as an explanation. And then, quietly, "I liked it when you sang it to me."

"I can sing it to you again sometime?" Santana proposes. "Or another song, or—or anything."

Brittany looks out the window. "Okay."

Santana pulls into her own driveway and parks. She casts one brief glance at Brittany before she pushes open her door and steps out. She pulls both of their bags out from the backseat, tossing her own over shoulder, then rounds the trunk of her car to hand Brittany hers.

"I need a shower," Brittany says suddenly. A hard silence stretches between them, and Brittany adds, "I'm going to go home and shower, and I'll come by in an hour?"

The adrenaline coursing through Santana's bloodstream is unbearable, but she pulls it together and nods. An hour. She can wait an hour. Besides, after Cheerios practice, Brittany isn't the only one who needs a shower, and maybe Santana will manage to soothe her shot nerves. Probably not, but she's got to try before she does something stupid like shove Brittany against the side of her car and kiss her senseless, nosy neighbors be damned. Santana swallows hard.

Without another word, Brittany takes her backpack from Santana, slips it over her shoulders and heads down the street.

Santana clutches her keys tightly against her palm as she makes her way to her front door. As soon as she steps inside and closes her door, she leans back against it and shuts her eyes, breathing heavily. She'd almost forgotten how it'd felt to be around Brittany, to talk to her, even strained and through blankets of tension.

Santana tosses her bag aside and heads upstairs. After grabbing a change of clothes, she heads for the shower. The first spray of water hits her like a cool summer rain, and she shivers. As the water temp adjusts and evens out, Santana closes her eyes and just lets it beat down on her. And then Santana does something that both embarrasses and liberates her: she cries. Really _cries_ with full-on snot and spit and it's so gross she almost laughs through her own tears. Santana has never been much of a crier. Sure, she tears up sometimes at those stupid chick flicks Brittany loves so much, and losing her tanning privileges had been a big deal, but she doesn't remember the last time she'd shed a tear over something that she'd legitimately been upset about, and she knows she owes that largely to one person. She cries harder at that thought, the sounds of her sobs muffled by the hammering of the water.

It's therapeutic though, because Santana's pretty sure she would've broken down in front of Brittany otherwise, and she would really prefer not to do that. So she lets herself cry herself out, and as mortified as it kind of makes her, it feels good. And when she's done, she's done. The water washes away any trace of weakness, she pulls back her shoulders and reaches for the shampoo.

By the time Santana is dried and dressed in sweatpants and a tee, she's ready for this. For Brittany. All of it. She stretches out across her bed and checks the time. Seventeen minutes to go.

Exactly nine minutes later, Santana hears familiar footsteps in the stairwell, and soon, a flash of blond hair appears at her doorway.

Brittany's hair is down, and she is dressed as casually as Santana – sweatpants and a tank top. Brittany smiles, a little uncertain. "I still had your key…"

Santana sits up and impulsively pats the free space beside her on the bed. Brittany though, she walks around the room in a large arc and slides onto Santana's desk, letting her legs dangle off the edge. The rejection stings a little.

"You look good," Santana acknowledges after a moment.

Brittany tilts her head. "You too."

Santana looks at Brittany, unsure where exactly she's going. She doesn't remember a time when it'd been this _difficult_ to hold a conversation with Brittany. She just wants to reach across the room and pull Brittany into her bed and _show_ the beautiful blonde everything she has so much trouble articulating. But Santana knows that she's past that point. That she needs to cement everything she feels with words.

Santana takes a breath. "I had this plan," she begins, and it's not perfect, but it's something. "To rock this school and get out of Ohio, I had this plan."

Brittany waits.

"The plan didn't involve you," Santana continues.

Brittany's eyes darken as she shuffles uncomfortably against Santana's desk.

Realizing what she'd said, Santana shakes her head. "No, I mean—" She slides to the edge of the bed closest to Brittany. "The plan wasn't about us. It was about how to be popular and get everyone at school to worship me."

"Looks like it worked," Brittany says impassively, picking at nothing on Santana's desk.

"Yeah, I guess, but—" Santana's shoulders rise in a short shrug. "I think I need to rewrite my plan."

Brittany remains unmoved. "Why?"

"Because," Santana replies softly, "I think you should be in my plans, Britt." Her cheeks are suddenly hot, and she quickly pushes on, "I mean, what happens after? We've got a little over two years, and then what? I want to get the hell out of this town, but—what are you doing after high school?"

Brittany shrugs. "I don't know. Dance, maybe. Mike's talking about eventually opening up a studio."

"Here in Lima?"

"Dunno." Brittany shrugs again. "Probably not. He wants to dance somewhere where it's okay to dance. Where it's cool to dance. Like Glee Club, except bigger."

"I don't want us to be on opposite coasts or something." Santana plays nervously with the hem of her shirt. "You know, apart."

"You were okay with it these past few weeks," Brittany says quietly.

Santana's chest tightens. "No, I wasn't." She rises from the bed and steps toward Brittany, feeling the words coming on, and she decides that, screw it. Keeping shit to herself hasn't exactly done her any favors. "I was miserable without you, Britt," she blurts out. "All I could think about was your smile and your laugh and your kisses and—and I missed you. I missed you so much I didn't even know what to do with myself. Everyone kept telling me to just talk to you, and that's exactly what I should've done three weeks ago, but I was so sure that was it. That we were just, I don't know. That it was over."

Brittany slides off the desk, and she's suddenly right there in front of Santana. Before Santana can even process what's happening, Brittany's hands slip fluidly around Santana's waist, pulling her close, and Santana presses her face into Brittany's hair and breathes her in.

"God, B," Santana murmurs, reaching up and wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck.

Brittany's grip tightens around Santana. "I missed you too, San."

Santana's hand splays across the nape of Brittany's neck, and she runs it back and forth gently. Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's shoulder. And then they just remain, breathing, absorbing, _feeling_ , and Santana's lungs fill with the first breath of fresh air in weeks and weeks.

When they pull apart, a faint smile adorns Brittany's lips as she looks at Santana.

"You're crying."

Santana touches her own cheek and is surprised to find it wet. So much for not bawling in front of Brittany. Santana laughs a little. "I didn't know," she replies, wiping at her cheeks.

Brittany gently pulls Santana's hands away and leans closer, pressing her lips to Santana's still-moist cheeks. Brittany is meticulous in her work as she kisses across Santana's face, and Santana cannot help it; she tilts her head, meeting Brittany's lips with her own.

Brittany lets out a soft moan as she opens her mouth, ever-receptive. Santana feels a second onslaught of tears, and when the hell did she become such a goddamn sap? But the ache in her chest is a good kind of ache, like relief. She kisses Brittany slowly, trying to savor the moment, but the first brush of tongue has Santana pressing Brittany back against the edge of her desk, hips pushing urgently against hips, and the kiss turns frantic, all tongue and teeth and desperation.

"Santana," Brittany is trying to say through heavy breaths. "Wait, you said—"

Santana detaches herself from Brittany's lips and buries her face into Brittany's neck, and she knows what's coming. Brittany nudges Santana gently, and Santana backs up and sits down on her bed. This time, Brittany takes a seat next to her.

"I talked to Mike," Santana says, studying Brittany.

Panic flashes across Brittany's eyes. "Why would you do that?"

"He came to me," Santana explains. "He was worried about you."

Brittany looks down at her lap. "He's not like you, San."

Santana's heart flips. "How's that?"

"I can talk to him about you," Brittany answers quietly.

Santana turns to stare straight ahead, unsure how to take that. "And you can't do that with me?"

Beside her, Brittany shifts. "Not really. You always get upset."

"I can change," Santana offers. "I—let's talk about us, okay?"

"Okay," Brittany says with a nod, and she's waiting.

Santana draws a quick five-pointed star on Brittany's sweatpants without realizing she's doing it. She frowns at her hand as she pulls it away. She's not about to add fucking Tourette's to the long list of issues she's apparently got going on.

"I got scared," Santana admits without looking up. "And I know that's as shitty an excuse as they come, but that's exactly what happened. I got scared. I never wanted to hurt you, and I just thought—everyone loves you, you know. People are just _drawn_ to you." She looks up, and Brittany is watching her, eyes unusually dark but as striking as Santana has ever seen them. "I thought you'd finally gotten sick of my shit," Santana continues, "that you were better off without me. I was so busy rolling around in my own self-pity that I never stopped to see it from your side. I'm so sorry, Britt. You deserve better than what I've given you."

Brittany neither confirms nor disputes that statement. She says quietly, "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Santana prompts, matching Brittany's soft tone.

Brittany's eyes flash. "That I didn't want to share you anymore. I told you to go after Finn so you could be head Cheerio, and that's what you wanted, but I didn't like how it made me feel." She looks down. "I didn't know how to tell you," she repeats.

Santana runs an apologetic palm along Brittany's upper thigh. "I shouldn't have even put you in that position. I mean, something was happening and I just—I didn't know how to handle that." She takes in a shaky breath. "Chang set me straight though."

"What did Mike even say to you?"

"Basically, he told me I was being an idiot," Santana replies with a small smile. "He wasn't too far off."

The corners of Brittany's lips twitch. "Let me guess; you didn't take kindly to that."

Santana chuckles. "I'm pretty sure I should apologize to him the next time I see him."

Brittany just smiles. "He's a big boy. He can handle it. And anyway, he deserves everything he got for going to you without telling me."

Santana looks thoughtfully at Brittany. "I'm glad you have someone like him," she decides. "Someone who isn't like me."

Brittany appears confused, even a little disapproving. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm not any good at this," Santana explains with a short sigh. "Relationships, I guess. Mike seems like a nice guy, and he obviously cares a whole lot about you. I mean, I do too but—I'm not so good at showing it."

Again, Brittany doesn't qualify that with a response. "Were you jealous?" she asks instead.

Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "Did Quinn say that?"

"No, San, give me a little credit here." Brittany grins. "I've known you for ages."

Santana mirrors Brittany's smile. "Yeah, I guess I was, a little. Not because I thought anything was going on, just—he's such a _good_ person, and I—"

"So are you," Brittany interrupts.

Santana laughs dryly. "Britt, seriously."

"You're different when you're with me. You notice that?" Brittany's fingertips brush Santana's jaw. "Actually, you're different when you're performing. Happier, I think."

"Yeah, well, I look hot," Santana deflects. "What's not to like?"

"You do," Brittany is quick to agree. "But that's not really what I mean."

Santana suppresses the sudden urge to push Brittany down and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. It'd be easier than this, she knows, but she forces herself to buckle down. "I just—I freaked out because I was so—" She trails off and exhales, trying to recollect her thoughts. "I wanted you _everywhere_."

Brittany's face knits up in confusion. "You had me, San. Everywhere."

Santana looks back down at her lap, running from Brittany's eyes like they could burn her. "I couldn't, not in this stupid town. You see what happens to that Kurt kid. Even now that he's a Cheerio."

"I don't care about that," Brittany says.

"But I _did_ ," Santana reveals, fighting tears, "and I feel like such an asshole for making that choice. Why would I give a shit about what people thought of me when those people aren't _you_? I had all these reasons why I couldn't be in love with you – because you were a girl, or because of this shit town, or because I suck at all this romantic stuff, and I just started making excuses. That it was just sex, that it was just high school, that everything I felt for you would go away with a little distance. But it wasn't, and it didn't." Santana finally lifts her head, turning to meet Brittany's gaze. Brittany's eyes are soft, and Santana's heart aches with apology. "I should've been focusing on the reasons why I _should_ be in love with you," she finishes quietly.

Brittany's hand slides soothingly to Santana's knee, but she doesn't say anything.

Santana swallows hard. "The truth is," she continues, "I need you more than you need me."

Immediately, Brittany's eyes spark. "That's not true, San. You know that's not true."

And no, she hadn't, not until this very moment when Brittany's conviction rocks her. Santana takes another breath. "Remember how this started? It was just supposed to be a way to relieve some tension, and then it got so… real."

"Is that a bad thing?" Brittany asks in a guarded voice.

"No," Santana reassures her. "No, but I mean, we were both still hooking up with other people at the time. Right?"

Brittany nods solemnly.

"Right," Santana echoes. "I knew something was different. That something needed to change. I knew it, but I didn't know how to handle it. I just convinced myself that you weren't any different than anyone else, but you were. _God_ , you were. You _are_."

Brittany picks Santana's hand off her lap and starts playing with her fingers. "I should've just told you that I wanted you to myself, instead of making it worse."

Santana leans over and presses her lips to Brittany's bare shoulder. "No, I would've flipped," she points out. "You're right, Britt; I don't react well to talking about us." Craning her neck, Santana reaches Brittany's jaw and plants another kiss there. "What did Mike think?"

"That I should move on and forget about you," Brittany replies with a small smile, her head falling to Santana's shoulder. "I said I couldn't."

Santana reaches up with her free hand to touch Brittany's cheek. "I love you."

Brittany's smile widens. "I love you too," she echoes, and Santana marvels at the way Brittany makes it sound so easy. Brittany squeezes Santana's hand. "What happens now?"

"Now we just…" Santana kisses the top of Brittany's head. "You want to give this a shot? Just you and me?"

Brittany nods against Santana's shoulder. "Yeah."

"Okay," Santana says softly. "Then that's what we'll do."

Brittany uses her weight to push Santana down onto the bed, and as soon as Santana is adjusted, Brittany moves to straddle Santana's hips but there's no intent for sex. Brittany leans down, and her hair falls around Santana's face. It makes Santana thinks of light rain, and she tucks Brittany's hair behind her ears, palms gentle against Brittany's cheeks.

"I don't even know how I managed to breathe without you," Santana says in a whisper.

Brittany plants a kiss on Santana's neck, near her pulse point, and Brittany keeps her head there, pressed against Santana's collarbone. Santana's hands slide to the small of Brittany's back. Brittany starts humming a familiar tune, and Santana can't help it. The song flows from her lips.

" _I could stay awake just to hear you breathing…_ "

Brittany smiles, tilting her head to look at Santana as she sings.

" _Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you're far away and dreaming…_ "

It's not the best Santana's ever sounded, especially since she's lying down with Brittany's weight pressing against her chest, but Brittany doesn't seem to care, and so neither does Santana.

" _I could spend my life in this sweet surrender, I could stay lost in this moment forever…_ "

Brittany reaches up to wipe at Santana's moist cheeks, and Santana laughs. She really needs to quit doing the whole crying without realizing it thing. Brittany just smiles and urges Santana on with a soft 'keep going'. Santana kisses Brittany's forehead and complies.

" _Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure…_ "


	6. Chapter 6

"Oh, thank god," Rachel says the next day when she notices Brittany and Santana entering the choir room with their pinkies intertwined.

Quinn smiles proudly at them. Beside her, Puck gives Santana an acknowledging tilt of the head.

As they take their seats, Mike nudges Brittany. "You okay?" he mouths, glancing briefly at Santana.

Brittany nods. "You're in trouble though, mister," she whispers back with a smile.

After Glee rehearsal, Brittany leaves with Mike to hang out, and she brushes a quick kiss to Santana's lips before going. Brittany looks a little uncertain pulling away, so Santana reassures her with a second kiss, right there in front of everyone. Brittany grins, and so does Mike.

Once they've left, Puck and Quinn sidle up to Santana.

"How was the make-up sex?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "Don't be a perv, Puck," she says. She doesn't tell either of them that she and Brittany had spent the whole afternoon talking, or that they'd fallen asleep fully clothed and that it was the best night of rest she's had in weeks. Like she'd promised Brittany, no sex.

Quinn pulls Santana into a hug, her baby bump pressing against Santana's belly, and wow, awkward. But Quinn doesn't seem to notice. "I'm happy for you, Santana."

"We're not like, getting married," Santana deflects.

Quinn laughs as she pulls away, and she affectionately links arms with Santana. Puck raises an eyebrow but Santana just shrugs. Must be the baby hormones.

"Come on," Quinn says, pulling Santana out of the choir room. "Let's go celebrate."

Santana is a little embarrassed on behalf of Quinn and her sudden outpouring of enthusiasm, but she lets Quinn drag her and Puck to the local bowling alley. It turns out to be kind of fun, even if bowling is a little lame, and Santana finds out she's not half bad at it. Puck wins though, which is surprising until Santana realizes there are a lot of lonely moms in bowling alleys. _Gross_. And to think she's been there, done that. Double gross.

After a few matches, the three of them sit down for pizza.

Quinn looks at Santana. "So you and Brittany worked things out?"

"Yeah," Santana nods, biting into the corner of her slice. "We're going to give this thing a go."

"What are you going to do when the rest of the school figures it out?" Quinn asks.

"I don't know." Santana shrugs. "You think I'll be kicked off the Cheerios?"

"I don't think Coach Sylvester is who you should really be worried about," Quinn replies, picking at the pepperoni on her pizza. "As long as you bend over and take whatever insults she dishes your way, you'll be fine. But Karofsky and the rest of the puckheads, they could come after you, and hard."

Santana frowns. "You're the one who said Brittany is worth the risk, all that shit about Rachel and Celine, which—what the fuck was that all about?"

"Rachel sang _Taking Chances_ for her Cabaret audition," Quinn explains in a hurry. "I overheard her practicing is all." She shakes her head. "Whatever, look. The point is, of course Brittany is worth the risk. I stand by that. I just want you to be prepared for the torment if it comes. Don't take a slushie to the face and wimp out, hurting Brittany all over again."

"I'm not going to do that," Santana reassures her. "Quinn, I know what I'm doing, okay?"

"Can we all just get to the part where Brittany licks the slushie off your face? What's her favorite flavor? She looks like a cherry kind of girl, am I right?"

Santana had almost forgotten that Puck is there. Almost. Santana doesn't even mind it that much though. She's long ago figured out that being crude is just Puck's way of being affectionate. Or something. Whatever, Santana doesn't mind.

Quinn ignores Puck and continues, "Santana, you were ready to give her up."

"I spent three weeks without her," Santana points out. Her heart leaps a little, and she's given up trying to contain it. The heart wants what the heart wants, or whatever other cliché bullshit everyone's always going on about. She shakes her head. "It's not an experience I particularly want to relive, Q, so I'm going to take good care of her, I swear. Both of you have my permission to kick my ass if I don't."

Quinn seems satisfied by that response, so she lets it go. Puck starts talking about Call of Duty, and both girls let him go on about it while they munch on their pizzas. Three slices later, Santana is stuffed, and her ears are ringing a little from Puck's monologue about modern warfare that she follows with great difficulty. Quinn isn't paying any attention, like she's developed some filter to Puck's video game rants. Santana almost envies her until she remembers that Quinn has to pop out a baby in a month or two, and yeah, no envy there. She'd rather listen to Puck until her eardrums bleed, and then some.

Santana touches Puck's forearm to cut him off. "I'd better go," she says, rising from her seat. "This was fun though."

Quinn looks up and nods. "Say hi to Brittany for me."

Puck, surprisingly, elects to say, "Good luck," and he actually sounds like he means it.

Santana bumps her fist against Puck's shoulder, and Puck teasingly reaches to tug at her Cheerios skirt. Santana swings out of the way just in time and slaps Puck's hand away.

Quinn grins. "I like you two a lot better when you're not doing vomit-inducing things to each other."

Santana rolls her eyes and walks to Quinn's side, leaning down for a quick hug. "Take care of yourself, Q."

Santana heads out. On the drive home, she thinks about her life now and how different it is from a year ago, when she'd been a greedy freshman hell-bent on destruction. She remembers resenting Quinn, and sleeping with Puck, and how she'd never particularly enjoyed doing either of those things. She thinks of Glee Club, and finding her voice, or whatever sentimental crap Mr. Schue's always trying to shove down their throats. But mostly, she thinks about Brittany and how, through everything, she's always been her constant.

Bring on Karofsky. Santana Lopez isn't intimidated by _anyone_ , least of all an ogre on skates.

As she's pulling into her street, Santana notices that her mother's car is in the driveway, and okay, she can handle this. The one thing in her life that hasn't changed in the past year, Santana thinks dryly. Obviously, someone up there is fucking with her.

Without even realizing it, she drives past her own house and pulls into Brittany's driveway. She cuts the engine and just sits there for a moment, trying to figure out what she's doing, and all she can think about is that night over a month ago, when she'd taken Finn's virginity. And Brittany, in all her unconventional wisdom, had suggested that Santana talk to her mother about the changes in her life, in both their lives.

Isn't that what all this is about? The winds of change, or whatever.

Santana makes a decision, and as she's walking up to Brittany's front door, she figures out why she's here. Brittany's mom answers the door with a warm smile that reminds Santana so much of Brittany.

"Santana! Come on in, honey."

Santana doesn't spend a whole lot of time at Brittany's, mostly because there's more privacy in her own home, but over the years, Brittany's mother has treated her much like a surrogate daughter, even when Santana herself was sometimes unreceptive to the idea. Since the start of high school, Santana has seen a lot less of the woman, mostly because she'd began to feel uncomfortable with her family situation and had grasped blindly for independence. Still, she owes a lot to Brittany's mom, and for all of Santana's swinging fists, she never forgets something like that.

"Brittany's upstairs, but before I let you go, could I have a word?"

Santana nods, internally cautious. "Of course."

Brittany's mother offers a faint smile. "Listen, Santana. I know you and Brittany just went through a rough patch, but I want you to know that if you need anything from me, don't be afraid to ask. I know it's tough with your mom gone all the time."

Santana balls up her fists. Not with any malicious intent because she'd never hit Brittany's mom, but it helps stifle her discomfort. "She's home now," Santana settles for saying.

Brittany's mother looks pleasantly surprised. "Oh, is she? Tell her I said hi."

"I will," Santana replies, even though she's pretty sure Brittany's mom knows she won't.

Brittany and her little sister come rushing down the stairs, foam swords pointed at each other. Brittany is sporting an eye patch, and her sister has a bright red bandana wrapped around her head. Santana cannot help but laugh, and the two girls turn to the sound.

"Santana!" the seven-year-old cries, dropping her sword in favor of Santana's leg.

Santana reaches to tug the little girl's bandana over her eyes. "Hi there."

The little girl makes a sound of protest as she struggles with the bandana.

Brittany grins and approaches Santana, pulling off her eye patch on the way. She launches into Santana's arms, and Santana is surprised to feel soft lips against her own.

The kiss is quick and chaste, but Santana immediately pivots to look at Brittany's mom, who is actually smiling, and _what_ messed up twilight zone has she stumbled into? Brittany's mom laughs, picking up on Santana's mortification.

"It's okay, Santana. I know. Just be safe, girls."

She walks away, and Santana turns back to Brittany, warm relief flooding her cheeks.

"You told your _parents_?"

Brittany smiles sheepishly. "They kind of figured it out. They're cool about it though."

Santana has always known Brittany's parents to be free spirits. They'd kind of have to be to raise a daughter like Brittany, and the very fact that they'd let Brittany spend nearly every night sleeping in her best friend's bed is a pretty fair indication that they're open to the unconventional. Still, it surprises Santana. She wonders briefly how much Brittany's mom really _knows_. Obviously she's figured out that the two had been fighting in the past few weeks, probably by the fact that Brittany actually slept in her own bed in that time, but Santana's pretty sure Brittany hasn't shared the part about Santana being a complete bitch, judging by the cheery disposition of Brittany's mother.

It makes Santana's chest swell with something she can't qualify. Stokes something in her.

Brittany tilts her head. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, but what are you doing here?"

"My mom's home," Santana replies, eyeing Brittany's sister, who is trying to attach Brittany's eye patch to herself. "And I think I'm going to ask her to quit her job. Be around more, you know? Like you suggested."

Brittany slips her hand into Santana's and squeezes. "You want me to come with you?" she offers.

"No, I just came by because seeing you calms me down," Santana replies, kissing the corner of Brittany's mouth. "I need to do this alone. But come by tonight?"

Brittany smiles. "Yeah, of course. I'm proud of you, San." She doesn't let go of Santana's hand. "Are you scared?"

Santana chuckles, nothing but nervous energy. "Not yet, but ask me again when I'm standing in front of her."

Brittany pulls Santana around a corner, away from her sister's wandering eyes, and she sandwiches Santana between the wall and her body. Santana reacts instinctively, pulling Brittany close, and their lips meet in a slow, lingering kiss. Brittany smiles encouragingly when she pulls away.

"Wish me luck," Santana whispers.

" _Bue-no suer-te_ ," Brittany sounds out. "…is that right?"

Santana laughs. " _Buena_ ," she corrects lightly. "And thank you."

Santana calls out quick goodbyes to Brittany's family and leaves. She doesn't bother moving her car from Brittany's driveway; she just walks home.

Her mother is busy at work in the kitchen when Santana pushes open the front door.

"Santana," her mother calls out, " _quieres empanadillas_?"

"Already ate, Mama," Santana replies. She slips into the kitchen and lifts herself onto the counter, legs dangling over the edge. She watches her mother roll out thin sheets of pastry for a few minutes, like she used to do when she was little, and it composes her, filling her with a dangerous courage.

"Mama?" Santana broaches. "Can I talk to you about something?"

"Of course, Mija."

Santana's grip tightens against the edge of the counter. Her mother looks up, waiting. Santana takes a deep breath. Like a band-aid is best, she thinks, vaguely aware that she probably should've chosen a location where knives aren't so easily accessible. She kind of wishes she'd downed a drink or five. But to hell with this. She thinks of Brittany, and it gives her all the bravery she needs.

What she says though, is not at all what she'd planned.

"Brittany and I are… together."

The room feels hot, suddenly, and Santana fights the impulse to take back her words and talk instead about her mother's occupation like she'd intended. But she discovers that she isn't even scared or nervous, just extremely conscious of herself and her surroundings. Her heart starts to pound painfully in her chest.

Her mother's expression is indecipherable. " _Qué? No entiendo…_ "

"Don't do that," Santana pleads. "Don't pretend like you have no idea. Please, Mama. Not about this."

Santana's mother busies herself with her empanadillas, and Santana just sits there and waits. She's seen enough to know it's nothing more than a coping mechanism. But even when a sheet of pastries is baking in the oven and the countertop is completely cleaned up, her mother still hasn't said anything, and Santana grows impatient.

"Mama…"

She whips around. "Is this because I'm not around to raise you right?" her mother asks, voice even but frighteningly low. "One of those teenage rebellion things, _si_?"

Santana shakes her head. "No," she says firmly, "this isn't about you. I can't change this, Mama, and I don't want to."

Santana's mother starts pacing the room, cursing in Spanish under her breath. Santana slides off the counter and cautiously approaches. Her mother turns around suddenly, pressing her face close.

"Santana Grace Lopez," she hisses, "you know your father would beat the shit out of you if he knew."

"He's never around," Santana retorts, voice rising, "and he's not coming back; he doesn't care what I do with my life. Does he even remember when my birthday is? Do _you_?" She laughs bitterly. "Mama, Brittany is the only person who has treated me right since you and Papi split. Don't you get that?"

Santana's mother slaps Santana hard across the face, and Santana is sure that there are ugly red marks across her cheek that she'll have a tough time explaining. It stings, in more ways than one, and the force of the hit brings tears to her eyes, but Santana refuses to give her mother the satisfaction. She holds her head up high.

"I didn't even have to tell you any of this," Santana continues angrily, "and you'd never know or even care. But I wanted to, because this is important to me. Because _Brittany_ is important to me. You can run off tomorrow and forget this whole conversation, but tonight, just be my mom and care about what's going on in my life. Brittany makes me happy."

Her mother is shaking her head profusely. "The good Lord did not make you this way."

"The good Lord," Santana counters, "praises the importance of family. I'm not a little girl anymore. You can't just slap me across the face, bake me some snacks and suddenly it's all okay again. I'm standing up for myself, Mama, because I can't remember the last time you did that for me."

Her mother's jaws clench, and Santana waits unflinchingly for another slap that never comes. Santana doesn't back down; her mother holds her gaze for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a minute or two before the older woman finally deflates. Wordlessly, Santana pulls out a chair, and her mother slumps down onto it.

"Do you know what I really wanted to tell you tonight?" Santana asks quietly, fighting tears. "I wanted to tell you to quit your job, to come home. _Te extraño_ , Mama. I just want you around more."

Santana's mother sounds resigned. "Then why did you tell me all this?"

"I don't know," Santana replies softly, swallowing hard.

Her mother sits with her head cradled in her hands for a long time, and Santana just stands behind her, hands still resting along the back of the chair. Neither moves, and Santana wonders whether she should say something. Her mother takes that decision away from her when she rises suddenly, knocking the chair back against Santana's body.

"Where are you going?" Santana asks, instinctively reaching out to a forever-departing form.

All her mother says before she leaves is, "Take out the empanadillas in twenty minutes."

Santana slumps down into the seat her mother has just abandoned and cradles her head in her hands, wincing at the sound of the front door opening and closing. She wills herself not to cry, not to _care_.

It's not that her mother is particularly religious or conservative, at least not since her father left, and Santana figures all that traveling has been good for her mother's otherwise-narrow view of the world, but telling your mom you're gay for your best friend? It's not exactly a common occurrence in the Lopez household, or well, anywhere. At least not in Bumfuck, Ohio.

Santana doesn't blame her mother for hightailing it out of there, especially since that's all she's been doing for years, other than maybe asking 'chicken or fish?' twenty-thousand feet up in the air. It doesn't hurt any less to know though, no matter how good Santana's gotten at hiding the chinks in the armor.

By seven-thirty, there's a plate of empanadillas on the kitchen table. Santana decides that she is in no condition to hold down food.

By quarter-to-nine, Santana is showered, dressed, and tucked in bed. It's early, and she knows that she won't be able to sleep, but she feels better immersed in the darkness. As she's waiting for Brittany to show, she takes out her phone and squints against the piercingly bright backlight.

She pulls up her messages and quickly taps out a new one: _I told my mom about Brittany._

Santana stares at the words for a few moments and almost considers just deleting them because who the fuck is she even going to send that to? But she just needs someone to _know_. Someone who isn't Brittany, because she deserves to be told in person. Santana scrolls through her phonebook and reluctantly checks off Puck's name before pressing send.

Puck's response is swift: _Shit what happened? Do you need a bodyguard?_

Santana closes her eyes. The reply actually does make her feel a little better. Not as alone. Taking a breath, she reopens her eyes and slides her fingers across the buttons on her phone: _Word vomit. And no she already left._

 _Are you ok?_ is followed closely by _Quinn wants to kno if we should come over._

 _Tell her thanks but no. Britts gonna be here soon._ Santana types back.

She almost expects a suggestive comment about comfort sex, but instead she gets: _If theres anything we can do just say the word. Stay safe S._

Just as Santana's putting down her phone, it vibrates one last time. It's Quinn: _Thinking of you. <3 _

Santana squeezes her eyes shut and tries to focus on her breathing. It's not so much that she doesn't _like_ being taken care of, but that she just isn't accustomed to the feeling. Except from Brittany. That girl defies all of Santana's rules. She's grateful though, for the people who care, moreso now than ever before. If nothing else, she's learned that it's easier this way, to have someone to lean on. Santana internally rolls her eyes; Mr. Schuester would be so proud. But well, Puck and Quinn… as much as she hates to admit it sometimes, they're probably the people who, aside from Brittany, _get_ her the most. They've had to put up with Santana's bitching and unpredictable temper, and yet for whatever reason, they're still here, ever-willing to come to her aid. That has to count for something. She isn't exactly the easiest person to get along with. She isn't oblivious to that. She's just never given a shit about any of it before.

Santana hears footsteps and lets out a breath she'd been holding.

Santana has her back turned to her door, and she hears Brittany stop at the doorway. Footsteps turn light, and Santana can almost see Brittany's dancer feet tiptoeing across the bedroom floor. Brittany changes quickly and quietly.

As soon as the bed dips under Brittany's weight, Santana turns around and presses Brittany down against it, pinning her.

Brittany's greeting gets lost in Santana's mouth as their lips meet, and for Santana, it's a desperate kind of hunger at the pit of her stomach as she grasps at every shred of comfort she can find in Brittany. And Brittany being Brittany, she submits to Santana's aggression, whether by surprise or devotion, Santana doesn't stop to ask.

Santana pulls at Brittany's top, stretching it over her head, and Brittany wordlessly helps her take it off. Santana immediately moves a hand to Brittany's bare chest, thumb rolling over a nipple, and Brittany moans against Santana's lips, back arching at the contact. Santana craves a mouthful of breast, but she doesn't want to give Brittany an opportunity to speak, because she doesn't want to talk about any of it yet. She just wants this. _Her_.

"Hang on," Brittany finally murmurs, the words spoken around an aroused sigh as Santana's hand is working its way into Brittany's pants. "San—Santana, wait."

And Brittany actually sounds like she wants to stop, so Santana pulls back slightly. Breathing heavily, Brittany presses her palms against Santana's cheeks, pushing gently to create some distance. Immediately, Santana recoils, pain searing through the side of her face.

Brittany tries to sit up but doesn't get far. "San, your cheek is swollen… Did your mom—?"

"Yeah," Santana breathes, pulling away. "Doesn't hurt though," she adds quickly.

Brittany uses her arms to push herself up; Santana slides to her lap. Brittany presses her face close to Santana's, trying to get a better look in the dark. "What happened?" she asks, touching Santana's chin. "Where's your mom?"

Santana sighs and climbs off Brittany. She lies back down, eyes closing as her head swims. "I don't know. She left."

Brittany stretches out beside Santana, propping herself up with her elbow. She reaches to press a soft kiss to Santana's temple and tries again. "What happened, baby?"

Santana's heart lurches to her throat. She keeps her eyes shut. "I told my mom about us," she manages to croak out.

"I thought you were just going to ask her to quit her job," Brittany says softly as she brushes her fingers through Santana's hair.

"I _was_ ," Santana replies, "and then I just blurted it out, and she flipped her shit." She opens her eyes and finds Brittany looking down at her, concern and something else plainly etched in her features. She's still topless, and Santana reaches a hand out, fingers spreading across Brittany's ribs. Santana pulls her closer. "Can we not talk about this right now?"

Brittany doesn't say anything, but she rolls over, half covering Santana's body with her own. She brushes the lightest of kisses to Santana's bruised cheek, then slides her lips to Santana's mouth. Santana lets Brittany control the pace this time, and she goes slowly, her movements tender.

Brittany pulls Santana's shirt over her head and tosses it aside. She shimmies lower to lavish attention to Santana's breasts, and Santana groans, eyes falling shut again. Brittany leaves a trail of kisses across Santana's skin, all the way down to the edge of Santana's underwear. Santana lifts her hips to help Brittany tug them off.

Brittany gently parts Santana's legs and settles between them. She leans down, pressing her mouth against wet heat, and Santana cries out at the sudden sensation. Her cheeks flush, and her pulse is hammering in her chest. She reaches blindly for Brittany, catching an arm and pulling her up.

"Britt…"

Brittany hushes her. "Let me take care of you, okay?"

Santana's hesitation is thick. "I just—"

Brittany cuts her off with a light kiss. "I know." She smiles encouragingly. "Just relax."

It's stupid, okay? Santana gets that. It's stupid because Brittany is so familiar with Santana's body that they could do this blindfolded, or handcuffed, or—Santana momentarily loses her train of thought because that doesn't sound like a half-bad idea, and Brittany's lips are on her abdomen again, moving lower, and _oh oh_. But the point is, Santana's hesitation is stupid because it's been nearly a year since they started doing this, and almost ten since they first became friends. Plus, it's not like she's never had anyone eat her out. There's just something so inherently intimate about the whole thing when it's Brittany's mouth and Brittany's tongue and _Brittany_.

The blonde is not shy though. She takes Santana's hand and holds onto it as she dives down, tongue dipping across Santana's clit. The touch makes Santana buck her hips, and Brittany laughs, the sound muffled against Santana's skin. Brittany slides her free hand to Santana's hipbone and rests it there as she continues to work Santana up with lips and tongue.

Santana holds back a moan, her hand tightening around Brittany's.

"Britt, _god_ ," Santana grunts, hips pushing instinctively.

Brittany's tongue brushes against Santana with a set rhythm, soft sighs and whimpers escaping Brittany's throat as her head bobs up and down between Santana's legs. Everything – Brittany's flushed cheeks, her low moans of approval, her hand pressing against Santana's hip – slowly but surely drives Santana insane.

" _Please_ , Brittany. I need—"

Brittany picks up the pace, applying more pressure with every stroke, and Santana's head rolls back. It feels like Brittany is touching her everywhere all at once, and Santana's breath grows heavy and erratic. Brittany moans, and the vibrations against Santana are completely mind-blowing. Brittany's teeth scrape lightly against Santana's clit, and she's gone, body jerking as she thrusts her hips, a loud cry filling the room.

Brittany holds Santana down as she tries her best to contain and channel Santana's energy. When Santana finally loosens her iron-grip around Brittany's hand and her legs slacken, Brittany pulls away. She's smiling, and Santana's cheeks grow hot. Brittany licks her lips before pressing a kiss to each of Santana's thighs.

Without releasing Santana's hand, Brittany crawls her way back up and buries her face against Santana's neck. Santana reaches up with her free hand and sweeps Brittany's hair aside.

Brittany lifts her head. "I missed that."

Santana brushes her knuckles against Brittany's jaw. "What?"

"Making you scream," Brittany replies with a lopsided grin.

Santana chuckles. "You did pretty well for yourself there."

"Mm-hmm," Brittany hums, pressing a kiss to Santana's collarbone.

Santana reaches down to push at Brittany's pajama bottoms, but her arms aren't quite long enough, and she only manages to get everything down to mid-thigh. Brittany rises slightly to kick them off, but as Santana hand is gliding over Brittany's abdomen, Brittany stops her.

"You wanna talk about what happened? With your mom?"

"Not really," Santana mutters.

Brittany lies back down, the length of her body pressing down on Santana, and she pulls the covers over their naked torsos. She takes Santana's wandering hands and holds them in place.

Santana draws out a long sigh. "I don't know, Britt. My family's just so fucking dysfunctional. It pisses me off." She looks at Brittany and shrugs a hand free, sliding it down the length of Brittany's back, trying to pull her impossibly close. Santana finds comfort in Brittany's warmth, and she carefully continues, "Something broke in my mom when my parents split. I think she looks at me and sees my father. This house reminds her of everything she doesn't have. We used to be happy, you know. It used to be enough."

"I remember," Brittany says softly, stroking Santana's neck.

Santana closes her eyes again as she tries to focus on Brittany's touch. "I feel like I've just been a burden in her life. Like she wants to be free but she's pulled back to this shithole because of me." Immediately, she groans. "I'm being such a fucking pussy about this."

"Stop that," Brittany chides gently. "No, you're not."

Santana doesn't say anything, and eventually, Brittany's breathing grows shallow. Santana watches Brittany sleep for a while, but her right side is getting numb from having Brittany lying on it, and she tries to readjust herself, but it only makes Brittany stir.

"Shh," Santana hushes, "sorry, go back to sleep."

Brittany slides off Santana, murmuring incoherently as she curls up against Santana's side. She does manage to make out the last part though:

"Everything's going to be okay, San."


	7. Chapter 7

Santana doesn't hear anything from her mother for two weeks. That's nothing new.

She actually gets a little worried that the older Lopez had gone and driven her car off a cliff or something – are there even cliffs in Ohio? – but Quinn, of all people, makes some phone calls and discovers that Santana's mother is actually back at work. ("She leaves for Madrid this afternoon," she'd said, and Santana doesn't even bother asking how.)

So life moves on. School, Cheerios, Glee, Brittany. There's still something empty where she used to have a family years and years ago, but there's a roof over her head and a bank account she has access to and chicken wings in her belly, so you know. She deals.

The end of the school year is approaching. With it comes nationals for Cheerios and regionals for Glee, and they keep Santana busy. And busy? Is good.

Mr. Schue assigns them a Lady Gaga number, which is awesome. Santana invites Brittany and Quinn over to work on their costumes together, and Quinn looks relieved to get time away from the Puckermans.

That's how the three of them end up on the floor of Santana's living room on a Friday night, printed images of Gaga outfits strewn around them.

Quinn finds hers first. "This dress will hide my baby bump perfectly," she announces proudly.

"How," Santana asks, "are we going to make that big spiky thing?"

Brittany is next, and of course she picks the only one that involves marine life, to substitute those ducks or whatever she likes so much. "Except, maybe with a bra," she decides, tilting her head at the white Xs taped over Lady Gaga's nipples.

"Where," Santana asks, "are we going to get a giant plastic lobster?"

Santana has a hard time choosing between two looks, but then Brittany purrs, "You'd look so sexy in black lace," and the decision becomes obvious.

First, they scour Santana's closet, then Brittany's closet, and all of Quinn's old clothes are probably in boxes somewhere in the Fabray home, so they leave that one alone. After visiting three thrift shops, an art supplies store, Walmart, and the Home Depot, they've collected enough materials to start on their costumes.

Brittany's mother offers them supper, which they gladly accept. Once everyone is fed, they find themselves back on the floor of Santana's living room, except this time, surrounded by old clothes, ribbons, lace, wires, everything. Even a giant plastic lobster that Quinn had dug out of a pile of rejected toys at Walmart. Santana's pretty sure the only things Walmart doesn't carry are human souls, and even that's arguable.

Santana spends most of the next hour in her bra and panties while Brittany tries to wrap rolls of lace around her to measure. Quinn is making use of the Lopez's old sewing machine in an attempt to attach wiring to the hem of this bright pink dress she'd picked up second-hand for five bucks. Brittany's hands sliding against Santana's skin is actually kind of distracting, but Quinn's there, so the chance of Santana getting away with anything is pretty much negative three. Too bad.

"I have some news," Quinn says. "Well, Rachel does, actually."

Santana makes a face. "Since when did you start hanging out with Barbra Streisand?"

"She dragged me and Mercedes to—"

"Same question," Santana interrupts, "different diva."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Will you let me finish?" she huffs. "Okay, we were spying on Vocal Adrenaline for some Gaga ideas, and it turns out, their coach?" She lowers her voice. "Is Rachel's mom."

Santana and Brittany both stop what they're doing and turn to Quinn.

"That," Santana says, "is thoroughly fucked up."

Brittany looks confused. "How did she even know?"

"Apparently she had a tape of her mom singing," Quinn replies. "Ms. Corcoran has an _incredible_ voice. Really distinct."

"I bet that Jesse kid was in on it," Santana points out. "Knew he was up to no good the moment I saw him and the head of hair he's clearly acquainted with an oil rig."

Quinn frowns. "I didn't even think of that. But anyway, I think it freaked Rachel out pretty bad."

"Did you two just leave her there with her mom?" Santana asks.

"She told us to go," Quinn answers, "but we waited for her outside. She didn't take long. I don't think it went very well, but she didn't want to talk about it."

"Rachel not wanting to talk," Santana echoes skeptically. "The end of the world is near."

"We should do something for her," Brittany pipes up. "Like make a list of the pros and cons of having two gay dads. Or chicken soup."

"Rachel's a vegan," Quinn says gently. "But maybe we could invite her here? Help her with her costume."

"Veto," Santana interjects immediately.

"Oh, come on, she could probably use a friend right about now," Quinn insists. "And she has a pretty unique perspective about this whole being gay thing you and Britt have going on."

"Oh my god, Q," Santana cries, horrified. "Veto!"

"Relax," Quinn laughs, rising to get her phone. "I was joking about the last part."

Rachel doesn't answer her phone though, so Brittany texts Rachel an encouraging message and refuses to work on their costumes until Santana does the same. She receives a long, appreciative kiss from Brittany for her effort, so whatever. Rachel Berry can suck it.

Quinn is actually a pretty good seamstress. Guess it helps having a Martha Stewart reincarnate as a mother. Biological mother, anyway, because that distinction has become important. Quinn helps Santana stitch everything together and manages to find a way to attach the lobster to Brittany's head without decapitating her. Operation Gaga turns out to be a success.

By the time the main parts of their costumes are finished, it's really late, and they're all exhausted. Santana sets up the couch for Quinn, and Brittany insists that she and Santana sleep on the floor of the living room to keep Quinn company. Quinn makes them promise no funny business, and Santana tells her about the bus ride to sectionals to gross her out. It works.

But Quinn doesn't complain when Brittany and Santana spread some blankets on the floor and curl up together.

Santana is nearly asleep when she hears Brittany say, "We miss you in Cheerios, Quinn."

From the couch, Quinn lets out a sigh. "I really miss you guys."

"How's Puck treating you?" Santana asks.

"He has his moments," Quinn replies, but she sounds resigned. "He wants to name the baby Jackie Daniels."

Santana chuckles knowingly. "That's kind of cute."

"For a puppy or an iPod, maybe," Quinn grumbles.

"My iPod's name is Frank," Brittany offers around a yawn.

"Puck's okay most of the time. It's his mom looking at me like I'm some tramp." After a moment, Quinn groans. "I have to pee," she announces, rising from the couch.

"Goodnight," Brittany mumbles to nobody in particular, pressing herself closer to Santana.

By the time Quinn returns from her bathroom trip, Brittany is fast asleep. Quinn crawls back onto the couch as quietly as she can. Santana begins to drift off too, but the sound of the front door jars her awake. She sits up, alert.

Brittany rouses. "San?"

"Don't wake up," Santana whispers, pressing a quick kiss to Brittany's forehead. "I'll be right back." She pushes herself to her feet.

"M'kay," Brittany murmurs, pulling the blankets that Santana has abandoned to her chest.

Santana walks cautiously toward the front of the house, and a light suddenly turning on startles her. She reaches for something to defend herself with and ends up with Quinn's spike ball contraption thing in her hand. Well, shit. The spikes aren't even sharp.

Santana pushes on and nearly walks right into her mother, who mirrors her expression of surprise. Santana doesn't even have time to process anything besides relief and the same eternal longing she's promised herself so many times that she would never again feel.

"Mama?"

"Santana, why are you still awake?" her mother asks, squinting. "What on earth is that thing?"

"Something for Glee," she explains, knowing her mother has no idea what she's talking about. Santana puts Quinn's prop down and doesn't bother elaborating. "What are you doing here?" she asks, a little more hostile than she'd meant to.

Her mother frowns. "Don't be disrespectful," she warns. "I still pay the bills around here." Santana looks down, and her mother sighs, deflating. "Mija, I quit my job."

Santana's head snaps up. "What?"

Her mother smiles faintly. "Two weeks notice means I still have to leave tomorrow, but I let them know today."

Santana swallows hard, throat dry. "Mama…"

Her mother leads her into the kitchen and sits her down. Santana's heart hurts, and she struggles against the tears burning against her eyelids. The older woman takes Santana's hands into hers, and Santana just stares at them, unsure what to think. She doesn't even recognize her mother's hands, wrinkled by the passing of time.

"Brittany's mom reached out to me." Her mother's voice is even.

Santana looks up, surprised. "Britt—" Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. "Britt didn't say anything about that."

"I don't think she knew." Her mother presses Santana's palms together. "We talked for hours. About you, and how well you were doing in school, that you'd been promoted to head cheerleader, that you and Brittany joined your school's show choir. I needed her to explain what that even was." Her mother's teary laughter is filled with remorse. Santana's heart clenches, and she looks down in an attempt to hide her own tears. Her mother takes a breath and continues, "I was sitting there staring at the ceiling of this hotel room in the middle of Barcelona as another woman told me about my daughter's life, and I—" She releases Santana's hands and reaches to cup Santana's tear-streaked cheeks. "I don't want to do that anymore, Mija. I'm so sorry…"

"This doesn't make everything okay," Santana croaks, even as she shuts her eyes and leans into her mother's touch. "You can't just… pretend like the last four years didn't happen. Make promises you never keep." She tears herself away and rockets out of her seat, distancing herself to clear her head. She bristles. "I can take care of myself."

Her mother stands as well. "I know. I know you can."

Santana shakes her head as a thought occurs to her. "And if you can't accept me and Brittany, I'm not doing any of this."

"I can work on that," her mother pledges. "Santana, _no será perfecta, pero te quiero._ "

Santana squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out everything that's happening. It's too much all at once, and she's spent so long convincing herself to accept the impossibility of reconciliation that she's unprepared for any of this.

Because for a moment, Santana recognizes this woman, remembers her as the one who'd forced her little tomboy to play with the shy new girl with the bright blue eyes all those years ago. The memory overwhelms her.

"I need some time to—to process this," Santana manages to say, her voice shaky. "Go get some rest, Mama. You look exhausted."

Her mother takes a step forward. "Mija…"

Santana holds up her hands defensively. " _Por favor_ , Mama," she says quietly, the Spanish sounding foreign to her own ears. " _Necesito algo de tiempo._ "

Santana knows that ultimately, as a minor, she doesn't have a single say in what her mother does or doesn't do as long as they fit within the confines of the law. But she also knows that her chest hurts, and she really wants to lie down and hold Brittany and not be standing in front of her mother all teary and vulnerable.

Her mother hesitates one moment before relenting. The fact that the older woman steps aside to let Santana leave the kitchen first means nothing and everything. Her mother begins climbing the stairs, but Santana stays put, and her mother turns around to look at her.

"Girl's night," Santana preempts. "Brittany and Quinn are over. We're bunking it out in the living room."

Her mother nods and steps back down toward her. Santana shuts her eyes as her mother cradles her cheeks and presses an affectionate kiss to the crown of her head. Santana squeezes back tears and doesn't open her eyes until long after her mother's hands are gone and the older woman has disappeared into the second floor.

Santana remains at the base of the stairs, gulping in breaths of air to try and calm her nerves.

"Santana?" It's Quinn. "Hey," she says softly, "everything okay?"

Without turning around, Santana wipes clumsily at her cheeks. "Yeah, go back to sleep, Q."

Quinn ignores Santana's instruction, and Santana feels gentle arms sliding around her from behind. It's not the same as being wrapped up in Brittany, but Santana draws comfort from Quinn, who doesn't ask any questions, doesn't try to turn her around, just holds her steady and lets her cry.

When Santana finally manages to calm down, Quinn nudges her back into the living room and onto the couch. As Quinn slides onto the floor next to Brittany, Santana frowns and pulls Quinn back up.

"I'm not going to be responsible for your baby popping out with nine fingers because you squashed one sleeping on the floor," Santana whispers, trying not to wake a still-sleeping Brittany.

"You can't squ—" Quinn shakes her head. "Take the couch, Santana. Me and my baby will be just fine on the floor."

But Santana doesn't let go of Quinn. "Get up here," she grumbles. "I want Brittany, anyway."

From the floor, Brittany stirs. Santana quickly pulls Quinn onto the couch and slips down to curl up next to Brittany. Immediately, Brittany reaches out an arm and folds it over Santana's waist, murmuring something unintelligible as she settles against her. Santana brushes Brittany's hair away from her face and leaves a kiss on her cheek.

Physically and emotionally spent, Santana falls into an exhausted but dreamless slumber.

\--

Saturday morning, the first thing Santana notices is her searing headache. The second is that Brittany and Quinn are already awake, and they're giggling about something. Santana groans as she rolls over, back aching from a night on the floor. Brittany's hands are sudden and warm on Santana's cheeks, and she peppers kisses all across Santana's face.

"Good morning!"

Santana chuckles as she tries to blink the sleep from her eyes. Despite Brittany's affection, it feels like someone has been repeatedly punching her square in the face, and she's sure her eyelids are puffy as hell from all the bawling she's suddenly making a habit of doing. Santana groans again. Fucking mornings. But Brittany is nothing if not unnaturally cheery in the a.m., which used to drive Santana nuts. Getting to hear Brittany's laughter first thing in the morning though is really not a bad deal.

Brittany is smiling down at Santana when her eyes finally focus, but the blonde quickly sobers up. "You okay, San?" she murmurs. "Quinn said your mom showed up last night."

"Yeah," Santana replies, sitting up. Blankets pool around her lap, and she picks aimlessly at them. "She quit her job," she adds without looking up.

Brittany touches Santana's arm tenderly. "That's good, right?"

"How do I know she's not just going to change her mind?" Santana snaps. Brittany doesn't flinch, and Santana covers her eyes. "I'm sorry. It's too early for this."

Brittany moves to sit behind Santana, her arms wrapping around Santana's midsection. Quinn readjusts herself to lean against the couch, pulling Santana's newly-abandoned pillow to cushion her back.

"I think you should give her a shot," Quinn says, but there's a darkness to her words that Santana can't exactly pinpoint.

Santana looks at Quinn. "If your mom offers to reconcile tomorrow, would _you_ go for it?"

"Yeah," Quinn replies quietly without missing a beat.

The response surprises Santana. " _Why?_ She's treated you like shit."

Quinn half-shrugs. "She's my mom."

"Q, she let your psycho f—"

"Santana," Quinn interrupts, but there is no venom in her words. "Family is family. We don't get to choose our biology. Look, my parents are tough to be around, I know, but I want to believe that my mom still cares about me."

Santana frowns. "Don't you think that's a little naïve? She kicked your ass out."

"She's living in an emotionally abusive marriage, San." Quinn lowers her eyes and shrugs. "I'd be no better than her if I didn't forgive her for her choices, even if they meant horrible consequences for me."

"But she—"

"I hate her still, you know," Quinn cuts in again. Her delivery is soft, even as her words turn harsh. "Every day. I resent her for not standing up for me. Sometimes a lot; recently a little less. But don't you think that people can change? That I've changed. And you too, Santana."

Santana feels Brittany's arms tightening around her, almost in confirmation. She turns her head slightly to look at the blonde pressed to her back, and she knows that Quinn has a point. Doesn't mean she's ready to admit it yet, so Santana stays silent.

Quinn continues, "And you know what they say about blood and water."

"I think that's bullshit," Santana is quick to dismiss.

"Everyone deserves a second chance, Santana." Quinn's hand moves momentarily to her belly. "You yourself have certainly gotten a few of those from this one," she points out, reaching to brush affectionately against Brittany's shoulder.

Brittany sweeps Santana's dark hair to one side, exposing neck, and she presses a kiss to the skin there. "San, let your mom prove she's changed," she urges quietly. "If her being around gets to be too much, you can always stay with me for a few nights while you figure it out."

Before she can reply, approaching footsteps make Santana tense up. Her mother appears at the edge of the living room with bloodshot eyes but a cautious smile. Her line of sight immediately turns to Quinn's extended belly, but she doesn't comment on it.

" _Buenos días, mijas._ "

" _Buenos días,_ " Quinn echoes.

"I'm going to make you girls some breakfast. Is that okay?"

"Could you make eggs?" Brittany pipes up.

Santana's mother smiles a little. "Of course."

Brittany brushes a hand across Santana's side. "Do you remember," she asks softly, "how I used to call your mom Mrs. Lopeggs whenever she made me eggs?"

Santana looks down at her lap. "That was a long time ago, B."

Brittany just holds her tighter in response.

Santana feels her mother's eyes on her, so she shrugs and says, "I'll have whatever. Quinn really wants bacon, but if she's reaching for the jar of Vlasic or the tub of Ben & Jerry's in the fridge, stop her. She's not eating that nasty shit here."

"Language, Mija."

Santana bristles. "You do not get to mother me."

Brittany clamps a hand over Santana's mouth. Quinn jumps up and offers to help Santana's mother with breakfast. Santana is steeling herself for a confrontation, but Quinn somehow manages to pull the older woman away. Santana isn't even sure the two of them have ever _met_ , but if Santana's mother wants a daughter to alleviate her guilt, Santana decides that she can have someone who actually wants a mom in return.

Brittany waits until the sounds of pans banging against each other can be heard from the kitchen before dropping her hand.

Her voice is quiet but admonishing. "San."

Santana sighs. "Can you blame me for forgetting how this relationship is supposed to work?"

Brittany rests her chin on Santana's shoulder. "No, but I think you should go apologize."

Santana wrinkles her nose in disgust. "What? I'm not doing that."

"I really want this to work out for you," Brittany urges, shifting against Santana's back. "But you're going to have to stop hating her before that can happen."

"I know," Santana mutters, deflating. "And I don't. I don't hate her, Britt. I just feel pretty messed up about the whole thing right now." She turns her head to look at Brittany. "She has to leave again, you know."

"What? Why?"

"She gave her two weeks notice yesterday," Santana explains, "so I guess she still has to stick around while they rearrange everyone's schedules or something. Find people to fill her usual routes."

Brittany tilts her head and presses a kiss to Santana's neck. "She'll be back," Brittany murmurs.

"Maybe." Santana looks straight ahead, her words detached. "Maybe not. I mean, all she ever does is leave."

"She won't have a job in two weeks, San," Brittany reminds her gently.

"Doesn't mean she's going to come home," Santana argues. She groans. "Whatever, I don't care."

"Yeah, you do." Brittany slides a hand under Santana's shirt and gently strokes the skin across her abdomen. "I know you still love her," she adds softly, her chin pressing lightly against Santana's shoulder as she speaks.

Santana opens her mouth to protest, but Brittany's sincerity stops her, and she finds herself suddenly fighting tears. Santana clenches her jaw and tries to focus on Brittany's touch instead of Brittany's words, because the truth in them stings. On some level, Santana has taught herself not to care, not to love, not to _anything_ when it comes to her mother. No expectations means no disappointments; isn't that the way it's supposed to go? But as much as it pisses her off to admit, Santana knows that some part of her is always going to be that affection-starved thirteen-year-old girl who still daydreams about her parents reuniting like in every fucking movie targeted to thirteen-year-old girls. It's all bullshit.

Brittany, apparently sensing the tension in Santana's muscles, tightens her grip around Santana's midsection. "It'd be easier on you," she says close to Santana's ear, "if you let yourself trust her."

"I don't know how to do that," Santana replies quietly, her voice scratchy.

Brittany presses her face against Santana's shoulder. "Do you trust me?"

Santana doesn't hesitate. "With my life."

"And I trust your mom," Brittany continues, "so maybe you could trust her through me."

Santana forces a chuckle. "I don't think it works like that, B." Santana is quiet for a moment, then, "Did you know that your mom called my mom?"

Brittany doesn't lift her face from Santana's shoulder. "Yeah."

"What the hell," Santana snaps. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"My mom asked me not to," Brittany answers. "I'm sorry, don't be upset."

"I'm not," Santana says after a moment. "I get why your mom asked you to do that." She twists her body around and smiles faintly at Brittany. "Hey, Britt?"

"Mm?"

"Nothing. L—listen," Santana stammers, eyes briefly lowering. "I really just—thank you."

Brittany smiles. "For what? My mom was the one who called. I didn't even—"

"Not that." Santana leans back, her head falling to Brittany's shoulder. "You kept me sane," she exhales, staring straight up at the ceiling. "You keep me going, you know?"

Brittany's hand moves up to Santana's collarbone, and she presses lightly. "I know."

Santana chuckles, tilting her head slightly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Brittany echoes with a grin, suddenly rising and pulling Santana up with her. She presses a kiss to the corner of Santana's mouth, but her smile wavers and then fades."You should've woken me up last night, instead of Quinn."

"I didn't wake Quinn up." Santana clarifies. "She probably just needed to pee for the two hundredth time."

Brittany watches Santana for a moment with sad eyes. "You should've woken me up," she repeats.

"Britt, I was fine. I am fine." Santana gently skims Brittany's arm. "Besides, you were all cuddled up on the floor. I didn't want to wake you."

"I would've gotten up for you," Brittany insists.

Santana smiles faintly. "I know you would've." She cups Brittany's cheeks and adds, "I really just wanted to sleep and you helped me do that, so I'd call it a success, okay?"

"Okay," Brittany replies, mirroring Santana's smile. "Will you just apologize to your mom? She's really trying."

"Fine," Santana acquiesces with a short nod. "But let her and Quinn make us some food first. I'm starving."

The smell of bacon, eggs and coffee wafts from the kitchen as Brittany and Santana approach. Quinn is at the stove, fiddling with a pan of sizzling bacon, while Santana's mother is scooping scrambled eggs onto three plates. Santana catches her mother's eye but quickly looks away. Mercifully, the toaster oven chooses that moment to ding.

"Mija," her mother says, her voice even but ever-cautious. "Could you get the toast out of there?"

Santana almost says something stupid but Brittany is squeezing her hand so she stops herself and quietly makes herself useful.

Through breakfast, Santana mostly stays quiet and lets Quinn and Brittany entertain her mother with stories about school and Glee. By the time Quinn starts yakking about their Gaga outfits, Santana has wolfed down her entire breakfast, and the fact that she no longer has something to busy her mouth with makes her uncomfortable. How the hell is Quinn so engaged in conversation with this woman anyway? Maybe it's easier since they're strangers. No pressure.

Santana stands up a little more noisily than she would've liked and walks over to the coffee machine. As she's pouring herself a cup, Brittany sidles up to her and leans in next to her ear.

"I'm gonna take Quinn to my place, okay?" Brittany whispers, just quietly enough so that neither Quinn nor Santana's mother can overhear.

A knot forms in Santana's stomach, but she nods.

"Call me when you're done," Brittany continues, "or just come over." She wraps her arms around Santana's torso and squeezes gently. "I love you."

Santana spins around and presses a quick kiss to Brittany's lips, craving the contact. "Love you too."

Santana's mother is eyeing them warily as they move back to the table. Santana tightens her grip around the handle of her coffee mug and slides back into her seat. Brittany, however, chooses to stay standing. She clears her throat rather loudly, and Santana has to hide her smile because Brittany's never been particularly discreet, but Santana has a feeling this is going to be plain embarrassing.

"Quinn," Brittany begins.

Quinn turns and smiles. "Yes?"

"I need your help," Brittany states.

"Sure, Britt," Quinn replies. "What is it?"

"I need your help," Brittany repeats, chewing at her lip, "with um, math homework. It's due tomorrow."

Quinn frowns. "Tomorrow's Sunday."

"It's for… Sunday school."

Quinn's frown deepens. "What? There's no—"

Under the table, Santana swings her leg in Quinn's general direction and catches the blonde's shin. Quinn spins to Santana, looking ready to bitch, when realization strikes her features.

"Oh, I—" Quinn stands up and moves her empty plate and utensils to the sink. She turns to Santana's mother with a smile. "Thanks for everything, Ms. Lopez."

Brittany skips toward Santana's mother, leans down and envelopes her in a hug, which seems to surprise the older woman. "I've missed you," Brittany murmurs affectionately.

Santana looks away and takes a gulp of coffee. It burns her throat going down.

Brittany pulls away from Santana's mother and reaches out to brush her knuckles against Santana's jaw. "See you later, San."

Santana catches Brittany's hand as she's withdrawing and gives it a quick squeeze. "Later, Britt. Quinn."

Quinn tilts her head in acknowledgement and leaves the kitchen. Brittany follows closely behind.

Santana stares silently into her mug until she hears the front door open and close, which turns out to be a really fucking long time. Not entirely surprising, given Brittany's mastery at being easily sidetracked and Quinn's baby bump probably getting in the way of her tying her own damn shoes, but still. It puts Santana on edge.

"Mija," her mother finally broaches, "I have to leave this afternoon."

"I know," Santana replies without looking up.

"But I'll be back. Two weeks, and then that's it."

Santana takes a sip of coffee, trying to ignore the slow burn in her chest. "What about money?"

Her mother shakes her head. "Don't you worry about that. I'm going to do everything I can to make this work again."

Santana doesn't say anything.

"I'll call you," her mother continues, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. "Every night that I'm not in the air, I promise."

"I don't want promises," Santana says coldly.

Her mother sighs. "I don't have the power to turn back time, Santana," she says gently. "Is that what you expect?"

Santana hardens. "I stopped expecting anything from you when you decided to quit being my mom."

"Santana…"

Santana shuts her eyes and thinks about Brittany. She takes a breath. "I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I—I want this to work too. I just… forget sometimes, what it was like."

Her mother nods delicately. " _Un día a la vez_ , okay?"

Santana finally looks up. Her mother's eyes are bright with unshed tears, and her cheeks are hollow, almost hauntingly so. Santana finds sorrow, and remorse, and so much guilt in her mother's features. It overwhelms her, and she swallows against the lump forming in her throat.

"I—okay," Santana finally says, unsure but willing to try. "One day at a time."

Her mother leans forward in her seat. "Will you tell me about school?" she asks. "I want to know more about this Glee Club, and your friends. Quinn seems like a nice girl. How did she—?"

"Get knocked up?" Santana chuckles dryly. "That is actually a really long story."

Her mother smiles faintly. "I've got five hours."

Santana only hesitates for a moment before launching into an elaborate retelling of Quinn's fall from grace. It's easier than she'd imagined, and from there, she segues into stories about Glee, and Cheerios, even Rachel's stupid Christmas party. And through everything, Santana's mother smiles and laughs and clucks disapprovingly when Santana accidentally calls Rachel 'Man-Hands'.

She doesn't venture anywhere near Brittany, but then her mom probably prefers it that way.

And when the clock hits three and her mother has to leave again, it's different, somehow. For one, Santana doesn't want to punch a wall or light the house on fire, so that's a pretty good start.


	8. Chapter 8

For the first time in a long time, Santana's mother keeps her word. Every afternoon, Santana's phone rings, and the two Lopez talk for as long as the older one has the time to. Santana learns, for the first time, that her mother's usual routes are to Spain and Germany, and that she's picked up a lot of German and some French from her four years there. Even a little Dutch, which makes Santana smile even though Brittany's family doesn't speak it at all.

It always takes Santana a moment or two to warm up to the conversation, but the consistency is a nice change. With a little prompting from Brittany and occasionally Quinn, Santana manages not to take out her issues on her mother, even though her mother is half the reason they're there.

"She cares, you know," Quinn had said, "which is more than some of us have."

Santana doesn't even have time to sulk and whine about how much she hates _feeling_ things, because it's almost the end of the school year, and a million things are happening at once.

First, that stupid Jesse kid does exactly what Santana had expected him to do the whole time. He defects back to his school of over-privileged snobs. She kind of wants to say she told them so, but it's not even worth the effort. Besides, Santana doesn't want to lose at regionals, especially not to St. James and his group of douchebags, so boasting about the fact that she's apparently the only one in the entire club who has an ounce of foresight seems fairly counterproductive at this point.

Santana doesn't really care. They don't need Jesse to compete, and Rachel will quit moping as soon as she starts noticing Finn's googly eyes again. So as far as Santana is concerned, there's nothing to be worried about. Just sit back and give it some time.

Then Rachel gets egged, and it all goes to hell.

Santana's a _tiny_ bit sympathetic, sure. Mostly because Brittany cares about unborn chicken fetuses too and doesn't discriminate against people with big noses, and when Brittany's upset, Santana's sure to get a little pissed herself. Santana doesn't care enough to do anything about it though, and anyway, as much as Rachel irritates the living daylights out of her, Santana has to admit the girl's tough. Handles a lot of shit on a daily basis, you know. So Santana's sure she'll be fine in time for regionals, and that's as far as she really cares about Rachel's well-being.

Quinn though, she has a different idea.

Quinn always has different ideas. Even back when she was a Cheerio, she'd be pulling schemes out of her ass, and Santana had always been forced to go along with it. Now, the obligation to play along stems from friendship rather than a mad status grab, but still. Doesn't mean Santana has to like it, especially when it involves Quinn _tricking_ her into spending time with one Rachel Berry.

Friday night, Quinn calls Santana up and asks her to help push some boxes around. Remember the part about everything happening all at once? Yeah, here's the second: Quinn is moving in with Mercedes. Santana really shouldn't be surprised. She's seen the toll Puck's mom was taking on Quinn, and Puck doesn't exactly have a sterling reputation when it comes to being responsible, so it might actually turn out to be a good thing. Whatever helps Quinn not pop out her baby before the little thing's ready.

But when Santana shows up at Puck's door, ready to do some heavy lifting, she is not prepared to see Rachel moping around in the background.

"Don't freak out," Quinn preempts, and that's never a good sign. "I don't need help packing."

"You lied to me!" Santana cries, not caring that Rachel turns her head to look at them.

Quinn pushes Santana outside and shuts the door behind her. "You would've never come if I'd told the truth!"

"For good reason!" Santana retorts. "What is she even _doing_ here?"

"I invited her," Quinn explains, keeping her calm. "She just needs some friends right now."

"And you expect _me_ to swoop in and be her _friend_? Are you nuts? You'd have better luck if you randomly grabbed a hobo from the local seven-eleven. I'm leaving."

"Wait, Santana!" Quinn reaches out and grabs hold of Santana's wrist. "She's going through some shit and just wants someone to care. Ask her how she's doing. I remember what that's like, Santana. Nobody deserves that." Her eyes darken. "They say walk a mile in someone else's shoes; I've walked in Rachel's for six months, and some of the things we did to her…"

Despite the sudden and heavy guilt tugging at her heartstrings, Santana shakes Quinn's hand away. "It's a Friday night, Fabray. I have better things to do than make friends with a singing tranny."

She's halfway to her car when Quinn calls out, "Brittany'll be here within the hour."

Santana turns back, and Quinn is already smiling in that self-satisfied way that makes Santana want to smack her. Slowly, Santana walks back to the door and clutches the doorknob.

" _Don't_ ," Santana warns as she pushes it open and steps inside.

Quinn grins and follows Santana through the entrance. The door shuts behind them, and Rachel is staring.

"Nice to see you, Santana."

"Yeah, whatever," Santana grunts noncommittally, and she gets an elbow in the side from Quinn, who is damn lucky that baby in her belly is protecting her from Santana going postal on her.

Quinn corrals the other two into the living room. She seats Rachel down on the couch and offers Santana the armchair, probably so Santana doesn't have a go at the mopey little troll.

Santana doesn't even hate Rachel anymore, but come on, this is too easy. And the whole being difficult thing is really just payback for Quinn deceiving her into babysitting Rachel.

Santana waits, for whatever the first activity of this mini-sorority is supposed to be, but Rachel just looks upset and Quinn is just sitting next to her on the couch, holding her hand. Quinn Fabray. Is holding. Rachel Berry's. _Hand_. It blows Santana's mind. Not that she's even _surprised_ per se, because she figures this is a gesture Quinn would offer Brittany, or even Santana herself (that is, if Quinn doesn't value the merits of having all ten fingers intact), but still. It's weird. Really, really weird.

Santana figures someone is bound to speak at some point, but a minute passes and nobody has. The whole thing is making her kind of uncomfortable, so Santana decides to go first.

"Um, so I don't really know what I'm doing here."

"Just sit there and be supportive," Quinn explains.

" _Look_ ," Santana stresses, "if you want me to go beat St. James up, I'll make it happen. But I don't exactly do this moral support shit, especially not for Shorty over here."

"Santana," Rachel addresses dramatically, "have you ever loved someone so much you felt like you couldn't breathe without them?"

Santana rolls her eyes. "No."

"Yes she has and does, Rachel," Quinn cuts in, throwing Santana a dirty look. "She's just trying to act tough. Ignore her."

Santana throws her arms up in the air. "Why the hell did you drag me here if you're going to tell her to ignore me?"

"I'm only telling her to ignore you when you're outright lying," Quinn says calmly. "And you're outright lying."

Santana ignores Quinn and turns to the brunette. "Rachel, look. Jesse used you. Get the fuck over it."

Quinn leans protectively over Rachel. "Santana!"

"What? It's true. Rachel's the one who's always going on about how important it is to _overcome adversity_ and _beat the odds_. Maybe if she stopped saying it to everyone's faces and actually applied it to this relationship, she'd be fine, and I'd barf a little less in my mouth. It's win-win."

Quinn is covering her eyes, as though horribly regretting the decision to invite Santana, but Rachel actually nods thoughtfully.

"You make a valid point, Santana."

Two sets of disbelieving eyes turn to stare at Rachel.

Rachel continues, "Although I don't appreciate your dismissal of my deep emotional turmoil, logically, I accept your argument."

"O-kay," Santana draws out. "So does that mean—"

"It _means_ ," Rachel interrupts, voice rising, "that I am still allowed to grieve the loss of this relationship, just like you did when you and Brittany were fighting."

Santana's gut reaction is to punch Rachel in the face, but she pushes it down, mostly because she knows that Brittany would be upset if Rachel is sporting a bloody nose by the time she shows up. Christ. She is so whipped. But Santana inhales slowly and manages to keep her mouth shut and her fists to herself.

Quinn nudges Rachel. "Do you want to talk about it?" she prompts.

"Not particularly," Rachel replies. "As much as the Jesse debacle is weighing heavily on me, I'm more upset by the fact that my own _mother_ thought it was appropriate to deceive me this way."

"Yeah, that's pretty messed up," Santana agrees, feigning indifference.

"I don't think she meant to hurt me," Rachel adds. "I just—wish things had been different."

Quinn pats Rachel comfortingly on the shoulder, and Santana grimaces. What is going _on_?

"I wanted it too badly," Rachel says quietly. "A mom."

"She's not your mom," Santana is quick to argue.

Rachel's head bobs in a quick nod. "I know that."

"And even if she were," Santana continues, "she'd still be a grade-A douche."

Rachel smiles faintly. "That was a very valiant attempt at making me feel better, Santana."

"It wasn't really a—" Santana trails off and looks briefly to Quinn before refocusing on Rachel. "I'm just saying, mothers can suck and yours does. That's all. Sometimes there's nothing you can do, and there's no point wasting your energy sulking about it. I would know, okay?"

Rachel opens her mouth, but Quinn cuts her off and shakes her head as discreetly as she can, signaling a big _do not ask_.

"It's not a big deal, Q," Santana says, unsuccessfully trying to keep her tone hard around the edges. "I can talk about it."

If Quinn is surprised, she doesn't show it. Rachel watches the exchange with curious eyes. Santana suddenly wishes Brittany is already around, and with that thought, she understands why Quinn is holding Rachel's hand. Doesn't make it any less weird though.

Santana takes a quick breath to calm her nerves. "Look, Rachel," she starts, grasping at the words in her head, "you don't have a mom, and maybe it made growing up tougher. Maybe you wished you had someone to take you bra shopping or buy you tampons for the first time, or… whatever." Santana frowns at her own examples. "It probably would've done all of us some good if you could've turned to her about when to lose your goddamn virginity. But you know what? I have one and she didn't do any of that shit for me."

Santana swallows hard against the sudden lump in her throat. She almost wants Rachel to open her big mouth and say something lacking any sense of discretion to give Santana a reason to attack her, but neither Rachel nor Quinn speaks a word.

"You're fucking romanticizing," Santana continues, pushing down her discomfort, "and it's pissing me off. You think you were robbed of your childhood because you didn't grow up with a mother? Isn't that a little unfair to your dads? Mope around all you want about Jesse and reference the shit out of Broadway tragedies – just don't do it to my face – but the thing with Corcoran? Get over it. You don't even _know_ this woman. You don't love her. You didn't lose her; you never _had_ her. And you're better for it." Santana pauses for a moment to make sure she's still glaring at Rachel. "Because," she continues once she has that down, "if she really did whip up a plan to stick St. James in your life only to take him away from you again, then she's fucking psycho and you're better off without her. Without either of them."

Quinn looks mildly confused. "I thought you made up with your mom."

Santana leans back in her seat. "I did."

Quinn frowns. "Then—I don't understand where this is coming from. Shouldn't you of all people sympathize with Rachel's situation?"

"Shelby Corcoran," Santana clarifies, "is nothing like my mom. Or even yours, for that matter. She didn't raise Rachel. She's just a stranger and frankly a piss-poor example of a decent human being."

"She's not as bad as you make her out to be," Rachel pipes up, words quiet. "She was young. She was chasing her dream. And now she has nothing to show for it except a failed acting career and a few show choir championships. She wanted something to hold on to. She thought it could be me, but she was wrong. Ultimately, I understand that." Rachel pauses thoughtfully. "But I appreciate what you're doing, Santana."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Santana grumbles.

"You're demonizing her," Rachel explains, "in an effort to reassure me that I am not at fault. It's rather endearing."

Next to Rachel, Quinn is wearing an amused grin. Santana actually flushes. Well, fuck both of them.

"You are a protective person by nature," Rachel yammers on. "Now that you're in Glee Club, you've grown to see that we aren't the lepers you'd previously pinned us to be. As much as you want to convince people otherwise to preserve your image, you feel a sense of obligation to shield us from those who have wronged us. There's no shame in that, Santana, and it's actually a nice change."

"Whatever, Dr. Phil," Santana dismisses. "I just want to win, okay? And in order to do that, we need you to sing. So snap out of it, Berry. You've put up with worse. I distinctly recall _someone_ duct taping you to the flagpole every morning for two weeks last year."

Quinn immediately flusters. "I—you held her down!" Quinn protests. She turns to Rachel. "I'm really sorry about that, Rach."

"It's fine, Quinn."

But Santana can tell that it's _not_ fine, and it's enough to make Santana feel mildly bad about it.

The doorbell rings then, and Quinn gets up to answer the door. Santana tries not to look at Rachel, in case she's expected to actually _care_ or something. Because no, Santana does not care about Rachel Berry, no matter how much she hadn't deserved the egging, or the shitty excuse for a boyfriend, or even the heartbreak. Actually, the more Santana thinks about it, the more she wants to find that Jesse kid, tie him down, and let Rachel stomp on his face.

Shit. Maybe Santana does care a little. A _little_.

Santana doesn't have the time to consider the consequences of this revelation, because moments later, Brittany bounds in. After leaning down to greet Santana with a kiss, she takes a seat next to Rachel, occupying the space where Quinn had been seated. Santana frowns, but she finds she is not entirely annoyed, because well, Brittany's here.

Quinn nudges Santana to the side of the armchair and squeezes in next to her.

"Lay off the cheesecake, Fabray."

Quinn rolls her eyes but chooses to otherwise ignore Santana's comment. Santana watches Brittany and Rachel for another minute before turning to Quinn.

"Where's Puck?"

"Last minute moving stuff. He's getting some sturdier boxes for me. He's been out for a while, actually."

"And his family?"

Quinn's lips pull into a straight line. "Puck's mom doesn't like his sister spending too much time around me. Thinks the pregnancy'll rub off on her or something."

"Second-hand pregnancy," Santana remarks with a smirk. "Almost as dangerous as second-hand show tunes."

Quinn stays quiet and looks down at her extended belly. Something in the way she does makes Santana's heart ache. Santana glances over at Brittany and Rachel, who are animatedly engaged in a conversation about Rachel's ugly animal sweater. She turns back to Quinn.

"Hey," she says softly, "I didn't know it was this bad."

Quinn shrugs. "Just recently. I think the reality of the situation is finally setting in on Puck's mom. I've only got about seven weeks to go." She sighs. "Puck has actually been a complete gentleman lately, but I can't handle his mom anymore. I think moving in with Mercedes is going to help."

"Why her?" Santana asks, and it isn't until the words have left her mouth that she realizes how much it'd bugged her – Quinn choosing Mercedes.

"Because she offered," Quinn explains with a short, humorless laugh.

Santana frowns. "You should've just told me that Puck's mom was being a complete bitch to you. I had an empty house."

Quinn shakes her head. "No, Santana, it's not like that. There are laws. My legal rights are being signed around. I couldn't have stayed with you without your mom around."

"Britt's parents would've taken you in," Santana points out.

"Yeah," Quinn replies, "but I guess I just didn't want to be a burden. And anyway, the moment I got kicked off the Cheerios, nobody on the squad even acknowledged my presence, except you when you were trying to be a bitch, and Brittany when you weren't looking. By the time I needed a place to stay, Finn was my only option."

"You pulled away from us," Santana points out, a hint of accusation creeping into her tone.

"That's what you wanted, Santana," Quinn fires back. She sighs, her steely expression tempering. "You certainly didn't make it easy for me to hang on to you." She lowers her voice. "Or Brittany, for that matter. She was always yours first. Her loyalty to you is… I don't even think you realize it sometimes, San."

Santana's chest tightens. "I do. I swear, I do."

Quinn nods. "It's just—Mercedes gets how I feel."

"And what, we don't? Is it like a soul sister thing? Do I need to start getting into jazz and wearing bling?"

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Stop it. You know what I mean."

Santana smirks. "I'm happy for you, Quinn. This'll give Puck a little breathing room too. You guys figured out what's going to happen when the baby comes?"

"We're not keeping her," is all Quinn says.

Santana hears the sound of the front door opening, and a moment later, Puck stumbles into the living room with a small stack of folded cardboard boxes in front of him.

"Hey, what's with the sorority?"

"Just hanging out," Quinn replies.

Puck motions at the boxes. "Where do you want this?"

"Leave them right there," Quinn instructs, rising from the seat. "Most of my stuff is in smaller cartons upstairs. I'll get them."

Puck steps in front of her. "No, stay here. Paint each other's nails. I'll go."

Quinn sits back down, and Puck heads up stairs.

"He's dreamy when he's being chivalrous," Rachel observes, "although I quite enjoy his bad boy persona."

Nobody tells Rachel to stop talking. Quinn has to preemptively pinch Santana's arm, but still.

Rachel smiles really wide, like she's noticed this fact. Quinn pinches Santana again, and Santana retaliates by reaching a hand to mess up Quinn's hair. Stupid morals dictating that punching a pregnant girl in the stomach should be avoided. Especially when said girl is supposed to be a friend.

Puck reappears, his arms full with the first few cartons of Quinn's things. He drops them on the floor and props up one of the flattened boxes he'd brought in earlier.

"Noah, would you like some help with that?"

"Nah, I've got it," Puck replies, dramatically flexing his biceps. "Puckarone's got guns. See?"

"Your arms are charming, Noah, but your brain is admittedly a bit lacking," Rachel comments. "You'll need to tape the bottom of the boxes first." She stands up. "Here, let me show you. Do you own a tape roller?"

"Yeah," Puck replies. "I used to tape that Kurt kid to the school fence every Wednesday, but it hasn't seen much use lately. I'll go get it."

All five of them spend the next half-hour arranging Quinn's possessions into cardboard boxes and closing everything up. There isn't much, actually, but three large boxes manage to get filled. It's kind of sad, Santana thinks, that Quinn's whole life fits into three cardboard containers in the middle of Puck's living room, but Quinn doesn't seem upset about it, so Santana says nothing.

Puck stacks the boxes on top of each other and pushes them against the wall. He turns to Quinn, looking like he wants to say something, but he casts a sideways glance at the other three and seemingly decides against it.

Rachel touches Quinn's arm. "I'd better go. My dads are taking me to a local production of Wicked tonight. That always makes me feel better."

Quinn's arms wrap around Rachel, and the two hug like they've been friends their whole lives. It's kind of creeping Santana out.

As they're pulling apart, Rachel asks, "Do you need help moving tomorrow?"

Quinn shakes her head. "Mercedes and her dad will be here bright and early, and everything should fit in their minivan. Go enjoy your play."

Rachel nods and steps toward Brittany, who pulls her into a tight embrace.

"Keep your chin up," Brittany whispers against Rachel's ear.

Santana is discreetly backing away from the lovefest when Brittany skips over and all but shoves her into Rachel's arms. Santana begrudgingly hugs Rachel.

"Hey, what about me?" Puck complains.

Brittany's arms slide around Puck's torso, and she squeezes gently. The surprised look on Puck's face is _priceless_ , and Santana laughs.

With final goodbyes, Rachel heads to the door; Quinn lets her out.

Quinn smiles at Santana as she closes and locks the front door. "Still mad I coaxed you here?"

"You didn't _coax_ anyone," Santana counters. "You flat-out lied to me."

"To be fair," Quinn points out, "we did end up packing." She grins. "And it wasn't that hard to get you to stay once I mentioned Brittany."

Brittany's arms snake around Santana's body from behind. The blonde's chin rests comfortably on Santana's shoulder. "Is that true?" she murmurs affectionately.

The protest is halfway out Santana's mouth when she pulls it back. "Yeah," she admits, brushing a hand over Brittany's cheek. "I stayed for you."

Brittany's grip tightens around Santana. "You're sweet."

Puck hoots. "Somebody's getting some tonight."

"Shut your mouth, Puck."

Santana does get some that night, but that is _so_ not the point.

\--

Quinn moves in with Mercedes the next morning. She insists she doesn't need any help, which is actually a damn good thing, because Brittany keeps Santana up all night (or vice versa; Santana's not too concerned with the phrasing), and they end up spending a lazy Saturday morning cuddled up in bed together.

There's something so peaceful and easy about being with Brittany that Santana has never known with anyone else, even before any of this happened. But it's these idle, quiet moments that really remind Santana of what she has, and where she is. _Who_ she is.

Brittany presses her body closer, her arm coming to rest across Santana's bare chest, and Santana turns to look at the blonde.

"Nationals is tomorrow," Santana says lightly.

Brittany smiles. "Yeah, you excited?"

"You know I love winning," Santana replies with a short laugh, the memory of the previous year's victory rushing to her cheeks. "Remember last year? Remember how it felt to know we were the best?"

"Yeah, that was pretty awesome," Brittany agrees. She pauses thoughtfully. "Too bad Quinn can't come this year."

Santana brushes the back of her hand down the length of Brittany's side, knuckles bumping against toned muscle and arched ribs and a firm hipbone. She fills with an inexplicable guilt.

"I'm sorry I pulled you from Quinn," she says suddenly, surprising even herself.

Brittany is watching her curiously. "You didn't do that."

Santana focuses on the rhythm of Brittany's breathing. "Not directly, but I didn't make it easy for you to stay her friend after Coach kicked her off the squad."

Brittany's eyes darken. "I make my own choices, Santana," she says quietly, a flash of irritation behind her words.

"I know," Santana reassures her. "I'm not saying you don't, but it's just—I would've given up Quinn for you."

"You didn't even like her back then," Brittany points out.

Santana shakes her head. "Even now. Not easily, but if it came down to it, it'd be you, every time."

Brittany softens. "I wouldn't make you choose."

Santana takes a breath. "But I made _you_ choose," she acknowledges with a heavy heart, "and I'm so sorry I did that."

Brittany watches her for a moment, then leans down and presses a light kiss to Santana's lips. "I don't think I'm who you should be apologizing to. Or at least, not the only one."

"I know," Santana sighs. "You know I'm not any good at that shit."

Brittany smiles faintly. "I think she'd appreciate it anyway."

"Yeah, maybe," Santana exhales.

Brittany touches Santana's cheek. "How's it going with your mom?" she asks quietly.

"Not bad," Santana replies, playing absentmindedly with Brittany's hair. "It's a work in progress. She's actually supposed to come back either today or tomorrow. Like, permanently."

Brittany shifts against her. "Has it already been two weeks?"

"No," Santana shrugs, "but the rest is just some paperwork, which she can do from home. She'll only need to take a trip or two to Fort Wayne, and then—I don't know. She'll stick around, I guess."

Brittany props herself up with her elbow and smiles down at Santana. "This is really happening."

"Yeah," Santana breathes, reaching up to touch Brittany's chin.

Brittany leans down to brush her lips lightly against Santana's. "Don't be afraid," she murmurs.

"I'm not," Santana knee-jerks. "I just—I don't remember how to be a daughter. I _know_ I won't be able to stop myself from saying or doing something idiotic and impulsive. Actually, I'm pretty sure I'm going to end up doing everything I know is going to push her away."

Brittany frowns. "Why? Don't do that."

Santana turns away and remains quiet for a long time, just holding Brittany's naked body against hers. Pulling strength from the blonde, because for all of Santana's bruised knuckles, Brittany's the one with the brand of courage that Santana needs.

"San," Brittany prompts softly.

"I don't want to give her a reason to leave again," is out of Santana's lips before she can stop herself, and she shuts her eyes.

"You weren't the reason she left the first time," Brittany states with an uncharacteristically fierce conviction. "Santana," she adds gently when Santana says nothing. "You weren't the reason."

"I know," Santana finally says, turning to face Brittany but keeping her eyes closed as she buries her face against the blonde's shoulder. "I need to shake it off," Santana groans. "I'm starting to sound like Berry did last night."

Brittany kisses the crown of Santana's head. "You shouldn't be so hard on her."

"You weren't even there when I bitched her out last night," Santana complains, though not unkindly.

Brittany chuckles. "As if I needed to be there to know what you said to her."

Santana lifts her head. "Yeah, well, _she_ apparently thought I was defending her."

"Were you?" Brittany asks with a grin.

Santana scoffs. "Hell no."

Brittany's giggle is muffled against Santana's hair. "I think you were." Her hand comes to rest against Santana's hipbone. "I think you really like them," Brittany adds lightly. "Everyone in Glee."

"I do not," Santana grumbles.

Brittany's hand trails up Santana's side, gently stroking. "You like Quinn and Puck."

"That's not _everyone_ ," Santana counters, relaxing against Brittany's touch.

"You like Matt," Brittany continues, "and I hope you like Mike because I really like Mike."

Santana shrugs. "They're both okay, but that's still not everyone, Britt."

"Okay, let's see…" Brittany bites her lip thoughtfully, her hand slowing across Santana's ribcage. "Oh, Kurt's on the Cheerios now, and he's pretty cool."

"He's not 'pretty cool'," Santana mocks. "He just has a freakishly wide vocal range, and since he's become Sue Sylvester's new whipping boy, it gives the rest of us a little breathing room, which I'm sure not complaining about."

Brittany hooks a leg over one of Santana's thighs and presses her weight down. "That moisturizing oil he gave you made your skin super soft," Brittany purrs, dropping her head to kiss Santana's neck, tongue brushing her pulse point. "And," Brittany murmurs against Santana's skin, "you seemed to like it when I rubbed it all over your body."

Santana groans, and she instinctively bucks her hips against Brittany's thigh. "That's not fair," she complains around a stifled moan.

Brittany lifts her head and laughs playfully. "You like Kurt."

"But I don't like Mercedes," Santana insists, "or Finn, or that Wheelchair Kid and his death-obsessed girlfriend."

"You've never even said two words to Artie and Tina," Brittany admonishes. "You can't dislike someone if you don't even know them."

"I don't know that Corcoran bitch and I hate _her_ ," Santana fires back. When she realizes what she's said, she groans. "I _don't_ like Rachel Berry. It's because Vocal Adrenaline is our main rivals at regionals, okay? And she's their coach, so obviously I'm not going to go and be her best friend."

"Santana," Brittany laughs. "You're so stubborn."

Santana responds by rolling Brittany over and dipping her tongue into the blonde's mouth to shut her up. Brittany doesn't seem to mind, and Santana's skin flushes with arousal when Brittany grabs Santana's hips and hikes her over so that she's properly straddling Brittany's waist. Santana lifts herself up and reaches down impatiently, but Brittany stops her.

"Admit it, Santana," Brittany grunts out. "You like them."

"Oh god, Britt, stop," Santana complains. "I don't want to think about those freaks while we're doing this, okay?"

"Okay, but—"

The rest gets caught in her throat because Santana's hand finds Brittany's clit, and she's rolling her fingers in rough circles to distract Brittany from her train of thought. The moment Santana associates Rachel Berry with sex is the moment she starts her new life as a nun, and she'd really prefer not to have that happen. Like, _ever_.

Brittany is a lot more complacent now that Santana's fingertips are grazing her where she's most sensitive, and Santana leans down to kiss her, the heat pooling between her thighs as Brittany makes the sexiest whimpering sounds that Santana has ever heard in her life.

The distant sound of a garage door opening pulls Santana from the moment, and her hand stills as she perks her ears to listen more closely. Sure enough, a moment later, the same clunky sound cuts through the air as the garage door shuts.

Santana's eyes widen as she stares down at Brittany.

"Shit," she hisses. "It's my mom."

Brittany tries to sit up, but Santana's weight is still pressed firmly against the length of her body, so the blonde doesn't get far. Santana clamors off Brittany and digs through the covers for their misplaced clothing. She tosses Brittany's at her.

"Get dressed," Santana hisses.

Brittany complies, pulling on her clothes as quickly as Santana finds them. Santana is slipping into her boyshorts when, without warning, she stops and turns to Brittany.

"Wait, wait. You don't have to rush. She knows. We're not hiding this."

Brittany pulls on her bra and slides into her shirt. "Don't test her, Santana," she warns.

Santana frowns and straightens up. The cold air hits her bare chest and she crosses her arms. "I'm not testing her, I'm just saying—"

"San, you have to give her time," Brittany says gently, reaching to pick up her pants off the ground. The clarity in Brittany's eyes is startling. "Even my mom would be freaked out if she walked in on us having sex." Brittany digs out Santana's bra and top and flings them at her. "Hurry up."

Santana dresses quickly, and as her mind finally catches up to the situation, she realizes what she'd almost done: placed her mother in a situation that Santana knows would upset the older woman. It's all in the push and pull, except the intent there had been to push push push. Bad habits die hard.

She hadn't had the good sense to recognize the purpose of her rebellion and stop herself from doing the only thing she knows when it comes to dealing with her mother, but Brittany had caught her. Brittany always catches her.

By the time her mother finds them, they are presentable, and Santana's heart doesn't ache when she's pulled into a tight embrace. It's not exactly familiar yet, but it's a start, and if there's one thing Brittany has taught her, it's new beginnings.

Just to be clear though, Santana does _not_ like everyone in Glee Club. Especially not Rachel Jewnose Berry.


	9. Chapter 9

Albuquerque, New Mexico is hot. Really, really hot and dry and thank _god_ the cheer nationals takes place indoors, because as much as Coach has prepared them to withstand both immense heat and immense cold by blackmailing the janitorial staff and having the thermostat in the gym adjusted accordingly, Santana really prefers doing high kicks at room temperature.

The competition isn't for another three hours, and Coach Sylvester actually lets them take a breather in their hotel rooms. Kurt sneaks into Brittany and Santana's room, complaining about the rest of the Cheerios harming his IQ and causing him stress, which blah blah blah skin care.

Santana barely looks up from her magazine, and Brittany waves invitingly at the second, unoccupied bed before turning her attention back to feeding her neopets on Santana's laptop. For the first quarter-hour, Kurt leaves them alone, though he seems visibly nervous. But he takes out his phone and begins to occupy himself with it, so Santana mostly ignores him.

When Kurt hums along with one of videos he's watching on his phone, Santana doesn't think too much of it. When he's full-out warbling fifteen minutes later, Santana sits up and puts down her magazine.

"Hummel."

Kurt pauses and turns to Santana with the fear of god in his eyes. But even Santana knows she's not _that_ good. In that moment, Kurt Hummel is only frightened by one person, and her name rhymes with 'chew polyester'.

Santana scowls. "Will you quit _doing_ that?"

"I'm not doing anything," Kurt protests.

"You've been doing vocal runs for the past fifteen minutes and my ears are ringing. Close your mouth and _relax_. It's going to be fine."

"Coach Sylvester threatened to expose my skin—" Kurt waves his hand dramatically over his face. "—to chemicals whose names I would rather not repeat if we don't take home nationals. I need to practice."

"I'm about to expose my fist to your throat, so shut it," Santana fires back. "It's Celine Dion. You can do it in your sleep."

Kurt narrows his eyes at the two girls. "You two better not mess this up."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Oh, _please_. Like you need to worry about us. We've got this down. Last year, we didn't even have vocals and it was a total cakewalk."

"The Cheerios did lose Quinn," Kurt points out. "And all the seniors who graduated last year."

"Brittany flips and tumbles better than all of them combined," Santana argues. "Kurt, loosen the hell up. We're going to rip the competition to shreds and take home that ginormous trophy, okay?"

That seems to appease Kurt, and he leans back against the headboard. "Things are just crazy right now," he sighs.

Santana tilts her head in a nod. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"I can't believe Quinn moved in with Mercedes," Kurt continues.

"They're going to end up killing each other," Santana dismisses.

"Strangely," Kurt says, "I actually think they might end up good friends."

Santana shakes her head. "Mercedes is loud and abrasive. It's going to drive Quinn nuts."

"Quinn seems to have no problem putting up with you," Kurt points out, "and you're quite a handful."

From the end of the bed, Brittany giggles. "Oh, you have _no_ idea."

Kurt looks like he's just been handed a dead rat. "I did not need to know that."

Brittany abandons Santana's laptop and crawls the length of the bed to push Santana down and snuggle up to her. "Hi," she greets affectionately, her hand sliding just below the hem of Santana's Cheerios top. "Neopets got boring."

Kurt's eyes widen. "This is my cue to leave."

Santana laughs. "Chill out, Hummel. We're not having sex."

Brittany pouts. "We're not?"

"Britt, we have competition in like, two hours. We need to save our energy. On the flight home though, okay? Promise."

"Oh god," Kurt mutters to himself, "I definitely did not need to know _that_."

Brittany laughs. "You want to come cuddle with us? San's really comfy."

"Oh wow, no, offer retracted," Santana quickly amends.

Kurt doesn't look at all interested in the proposition. "You do realize," he sounds out, "that I am not Puck."

Santana snorts. "Like all Puck would want to do is 'cuddle'."

Kurt flushes. "Fair point."

Brittany starts kissing Santana's neck, and Santana feels her resolve slipping away, her hand instinctively moving to stroke Brittany's thigh. But if they start, she won't be able to stop, and then they'll both be exhausted come competition time, and if Santana's limbs are heavy and her head is swimming with sex as she's trying to land a flip, she surely won't be able to concentrate, and if she can't concentrate, she might fall, which means they lose. If they lose, she's pretty sure Coach would set her on fire.

And if she's set on fire, she'll never have sex with Brittany again. That's totally counterproductive. Also, a pretty shitty outcome. Santana tightens her determination and nudges Brittany away.

Kurt is staring, partly curious and partly horrified.

Santana clears her throat. "You guys want to play cards or something?" she manages to ask.

They spend the rest of their free time playing a version of Asshole sorely lacking alcohol, but it keeps Santana's mind off Brittany's legs and Kurt's mind off his impending Celine Dion medley, so Santana considers it a success.

An hour before competition, Sue Sylvester comes barreling through their door.

"Up and at 'em, ladies," she barks through her megaphone. "Lobby in five."

Santana slaps Kurt across the shoulder. "You're up, Elton John."

The entire Cheerios squad squeezes into two air-conditioned buses that drop them off at the competition site. By then, Santana is running on sheer adrenaline, and as she works through the warm-ups with the rest of the group, she's pumped up. There's nothing quite like putting on a show and looking fucking fantastic doing it.

Their routine is flawless, as fully expected. Sue Sylvester is a complete tyrant, and she may enjoy pushing her squad so far past their breaking point most of the Cheerios spend their nights whimpering in the fetal position, but she does know how to win.

And win they do. Kurt belts out Celine Dion like his life depends on it (it does, actually, but that's not the point) and Santana kicks and flips to the rhythm, feeling an incredible rush of excitement as she flies through the air and is rewarded with a throng of applause.

She knows, before they're even finished the routine, that the championship is theirs. Her high does not fade, even as they are forced to sit through three mediocre, vomit-inducing – Coach's words, not hers – performances.

When the winner is finally announced, the sounds of her teammate's ecstatic screams fill the air, but all Santana hears is Brittany's laughter next to her ear. She grabs the blonde around the waist and pulls her in. Brittany is yelling something but Santana can't hear her over the noise and it doesn't matter because Brittany's flushed cheeks say everything.

As captain, Santana ends up with some face time on Fox Sports Net with Coach, and though the questions are inane as hell, she answers them with an enthusiastic smile because she recognizes an opportunity when she sees one. College recruiters are watching. She even manages to pull Brittany into one of the shots.

When the brouhaha finally dies down hours later, they are sent back to their hotel rooms to pack up and wait for their flight home. Santana doesn't realize how turned on she is until she and Brittany reach their room and she can barely wait for the door to be closed before she has Brittany pinned to the wall, hips pushing for contact as her lips attack Brittany's neck.

Brittany laughs breathlessly. "I thought we were waiting for the plane ride home."

"Fuck that," Santana grunts, and Brittany doesn't argue with that.

Santana drops to her knees, her hands sliding up the length of Brittany's thighs. She presses her face against Brittany's pelvis, and even through the blonde's skirt, she takes in the intoxicating scent of Brittany's arousal. It stirs something in Santana, and her hand moves higher, fingertips brushing between Brittany's legs and finding Brittany's spankies soaked through. Santana tugs them down quickly and Brittany lifts her feet so Santana can unhook them and toss them onto the bed.

Santana tries to spread Brittany's legs but it's not working out too well, so she grunts in frustration and lifts one of Brittany's legs at the knee and tosses it over her shoulder. Much better. She holds Brittany's skirt up with one hand and brushes her lips lightly against Brittany's inner thigh before darting out her tongue to press against Brittany's clit. Immediately, Brittany's weight falls forward, and Santana feels it against her shoulder.

Undeterred, Santana buries her face closer, tasting something she knows only as _Brittany_ , a little salty, a little sweet.

Brittany's hips lift off the wall, pushing, and Santana has to pin her down with a hand at her hipbone.

"San—ungh, _god_ ," Brittany murmurs, her skin flushed.

Santana moans, tongue thrusting into Brittany at an erratic beat, and she can't help it; she reaches a hand down between her own legs, needing to alleviate a bit of the pressure. She tugs her spankies aside and pushes two fingers into herself, a groan escaping her throat at the sensation. She never takes her eyes off Brittany.

Brittany's breathing grows quick and shallow, and her body is tensing as Santana builds her up with insistent lips and an adventurous tongue. Brittany's eyes are smoky and unfocused but they never move away from Santana.

"You're touching yourself," Brittany says around a groan, "aren't you?"

"Mmph," Santana whimpers, thrusting her fingers faster inside herself.

Brittany's laughter comes out breathy. "I like this. You not being able to talk."

A flush creeps up Santana's neck, and she moves her other hand next to her own chin, letting her fingertips press against Brittany's folds as she focuses on sucking at Brittany's clit. With nothing to hold them up, the pleats of Brittany's skirt fall around Santana's face, and Brittany reaches to push them aside. The muscles in Brittany's thighs clench, and with the indication that Brittany is extremely close, Santana plunges two fingers into her.

Brittany moans as her body shakes with the force of her orgasm, and Santana nearly collapses under the sudden weight of Brittany slackening against her.

Santana works a third finger into herself in an attempt to get herself off too, but it isn't until Brittany's leg falls from Santana's shoulder and the blonde slithers down to her knees that Santana finds herself rushing to the edge. Brittany's hand wraps around Santana's wrist to guide her, and it's so reminiscent of the first time that Santana groans and comes immediately, head falling forward as pleasure rips through her.

Brittany's lips catch Santana's, and the two share unhurried, tranquil kisses until Santana's hand stills and she pulls out, thoroughly sated.

"I—" Santana laughs. "I couldn't wait."

Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's lips. "Not even three steps to the bed?"

Santana grins. "What, you didn't enjoy me taking you against the wall?"

"I didn't say that," Brittany protests.

Santana rises on unsteady feet, pulling Brittany up with her.

"I need to shower," Santana announces.

Brittany smiles. "Is that an invitation?"

Santana hides her smirk. "We only have thirty minutes before Coach barges in here."

"Guess we'd better double up then," Brittany says innocently, her pinky sliding around Santana's.

Santana is certain that this is the least time-efficient decision of her entire life, but hell if she's going to turn down licking streams of water off Brittany's skin.

\--

Back at school, Brittany only kisses Santana in the choir room, where it's safe, but when they both start consistently and unrelentingly turning down the advances of random jocks that neither would've had a problem with before, even someone as dull as Azimio figures it all out. He and Karofsky corner them as they're heading out with Kurt after Cheerios practice one afternoon, the week after their nationals win.

"Look what we have here, a trio of homos."

Kurt puffs out his chest and tries to stand up for them like he'd done for Tina weeks earlier, but Santana notices that the poor guy is shaking a little, so she quickly steps in front of him, her arm nudging him back protectively.

"What do you blockheads want?"

"Well, since you asked," Azimio answers with a sneer, "we want you on your knees. Maybe even you, Hummel. You're into the dick, aren't you? I got an imagination."

Kurt blanches, and Santana clenches her jaws. A quiet rage brews within her, but she knows how to pick her battles. If she were alone, she'd take both of them on, ugly consequences be damned. But there's Brittany and Kurt, and if either of them ends up as collateral damage, she'd never forgive herself. Priority number one is getting the three of them out of there unharmed. They're still on school grounds and not really all that secluded, so it's not like they're in any serious danger, but she's not a fan of Brittany or Kurt getting knocked around. Santana holds her stance but keeps her mouth shut, even as she's itching to tear Azimio a new one. Instinctively, she pushes both Brittany and Kurt farther behind her.

"What's the matter?" Karofsky cuts in. "Gay got your tongue?"

Azimio hoots, and the two morons high-five each other.

Santana can't help it. "Both of you need to shut the fuck up. Me not wanting any part of you has nothing to do with you having a dick and everything to do with the fact that you're completely disgusting."

"Oh yeah? That's not what you said when I fucked you last year," Karofsky taunts, and not that Santana will ever admit it, but that one actually cuts a little. Karofsky isn't done. "Chirping a different tune now that you've caught homo-itis from your little group of circus freaks?"

"They should change the name of this place to Queerios," Azimio whoops.

Santana lunges forward, her fist catching the side of Azimio's head. But the lineman has about five inches and nearly a hundred pounds on her, and his meaty fist grips Santana's wrist. Karofsky reaches for Kurt, and Santana kicks out in an attempt to stop him, but Azimio is holding onto her too tightly for it to have any real effect.

Brittany jumps into the fray, clutching at Azimio's neck from behind, and she actually does manage to get Azimio to loosen his grasp on Santana, but the blonde gets an elbow to the chest in the process.

"Shit, stay back, Britt," Santana growls, catching Azimio's hip with her knee.

Kurt lets out a muffled cry, but Santana is too preoccupied with her own struggle to check out what's going on with him and Karofsky. She tries to tell Brittany to either get help or assist Kurt, but Santana takes a fist to the stomach, and it knocks the wind out of her. Her head immediately spins and her vision gets blurry, but just as she is reaching blindly to scratch at Azimio's face, a voice behind them bellows.

" _Will someone please explain to me what is going on here?_ "

It's Coach Sylvester, and Santana does not think she has ever been as glad to hear that woman's voice in her entire life.

Azimio releases Santana, and she stumbles backwards, legs unsteady and head still swimming. Brittany's arms catch her, balancing her, and though Santana is still trying to catch her breath, she manages to mutter something that sounds vaguely like 'Kurt…'

"He's okay," Brittany whispers in Santana's ear. "Breathe. Don't try to talk," she adds, and Santana wonders if she's actually worse off than the adrenaline pumping through her veins will let her believe.

By the time Santana's eyes refocus, Coach Sylvester has stepped between the Cheerios and the two jocks, and she practically has smoke coming out of her ears as she gesticulates her way through a tirade.

"Are you insane? Are you _insane_? What were you two freak shows doing last Sunday? I'll tell you what Sue Sylvester and her squad of champions were doing. We were at cheer nationals in Albuquerque, crushing our competition like I do the hands of every elderly person I come across. They were bound to get arthritis anyway," she sneers. "If you lay another hand on my Cheerios, compromising my seventh consecutive national title next year, I will have both of your heads mounted on my wall like the caribou I strangled with my own bare hands last winter in the Siberian tundra. Am I making myself clear?"

"Y—yes, Ms. Sylvester."

" _Especially_ these three," she continues, pointing behind her. "Santana is my head Cheerio, Brittany's flexibility would be repulsive if not for the fact that she is the only one on the squad who is foolish enough to agree to be tossed in the air while twisted up like a human pretzel, and while I find myself absolutely horrified by Kurt's inability to act gender-appropriate given the sausage between his legs, he belts out Mariah like he's already had two boob jobs and a face lift.

"So unless you boys have plans of picking up anorexia and dropping a hundred and fifty pounds each, and learning how to balance on one leg twenty feet in the air, or string together five front aerials in a row, or sing like someone replaced your protein shakes with estrogen and a vocal cord transplant, you'd best keep your hands off these three and maybe consider investing in some gay porno, because your fascination with homosexuality both astounds and nauseates me." She turns briefly to Kurt. "I'm sure this one would be happy to name some websites."

"No, actually, I—"

"Not interested. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go kick some puppies. Literally. Neighbors had a litter this weekend and they won't stop peeing on my lawn." She steps menacingly toward Azimio and Karofsky. "If I catch you buffoons loitering around my Cheerios again, I will personally see to it that you are shipped off to the Congo, where the gorilla is currently listed as critically endangered. Maybe you two could help boost the populations."

Coach Sylvester turns to the three Cheerios. "Santana, that wristband looks ridiculous. Burn it. Brittany, the scrape on your knee is unacceptable. I don't care if the only way for you to show affection to your kind involves being on your knees; affection has no place in a relationship. Kurt, cancel your subscription to Cosmo. You don't need a quiz to tell you how much sex appeal you have. Sue Sylvester can answer that for you, and her verdict is _none_."

With one last glare at Azimio and Karofsky, Coach Sylvester leaves.

"This isn't over," Karofsky warns.

Azimio swipes at his nose, where a pool of blood has formed, and he glares menacingly at Santana. "Watch your back, you little bitch."

The threat feels mostly empty, because it's no secret that even goons like Azimio are terrified of Coach Sylvester. Still, Azimio pounds his chest as he and Karofsky turn and walk away.

Santana looks at Brittany. The blonde's cheeks are flushed, and there's a slight quiver in her bottom lip. Santana's rage grows. Brittany leans over and kisses Santana softly, arms tightening around her. Santana tries not to cringe as Brittany presses against tender ribs, but Brittany must notice anyway because she loosens her grip and brushes an apologetic kiss to Santana's shoulder.

Santana turns to Kurt. "You okay, Hummel?"

"Yeah," he manages to say, even though he looks thoroughly spooked. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You need a ride home?" she offers.

"No," he replies without looking at either of them, but he lets Santana lead him to her car. Brittany buckles him into the backseat and slides in beside him.

As she's pulling out of the parking lot, Santana peers at the rearview mirror. "I don't know where you live, so…"

Kurt stammers, "I, um—"

"How about I just drive you to my place, let you kick back a little, and your dad can pick you up from there when you don't look like Casper?"

Kurt only nods. Brittany picks up his hand and holds it the whole ride. They start whispering to each other, but Santana can't make out what they're saying, so she focuses on the road and breathes through the aches all along the length of her body. Santana clenches her jaw. The adrenaline is wearing off, and that motherfucker Azimio had landed a few good hits on her.

Santana manages to drive home without incident though, and thankfully, her mother is out. For a moment, a familiar panic settles in as she pulls into an empty driveway, but for Brittany and Kurt's sake, she keeps it to herself. She follows the other two into the kitchen and watches tensely as Brittany sits Kurt down at the table and brings him a glass of water.

Santana's insecurity doesn't stem from any recent activity, because she's actually been getting along quite well with her mother. It kind of sucks that she and Brittany have had to be quieter during sex, but other than that, she's surprised by how easily she adjusts to having someone else around, especially someone in a position of authority over her. It's not even that she's legitimately concerned that her mother's bailed again; it's more like an old habit, an ugly memory. It makes her edgy.

Out of the corner of her eye, Santana notices a sheet of paper tacked to the fridge. Across it, in her mother's neat loopy handwriting, the words _supermercado – 45 minutos_. Santana lets out a breath and laughs dryly to herself.

She leaves the kitchen for a moment to call Finn. It'd been a rough start for Finn and Kurt, trying to live together without stepping on each other's toes, but from what Santana's been able to gather from that god-awful shower curtain dress that still haunts her nightmares and Kurt's newfound appreciation of basketball, they've worked things out.

Judging by the way Finn's hulking figure barrels through her front door ten minutes later, Santana's pretty sure she's right on the money.

"I swear to god," he rampages, "I'm going to kick Karofsky's ass."

Santana catches his forearm. "Take it easy."

Finn spins to face her. "Don't tell me to take it easy. Kurt's family now."

"Hey," Santana shoots back, "the bastards hurt us too, okay? Calm the fuck down."

Finn's eyes lower, and Santana sees the same guilt from the night she'd slept with him. Sometimes she wonders if he'll ever get back what she'd taken from him, and she doesn't mean his virginity. "Sorry," he says quietly. "I just—are you and Brittany okay?"

"Yeah, we'll be fine," Santana replies, rubbing the back of her neck. "Chill out, all right? Kurt doesn't need you to flip out on him right now. He's taken shit from Karofsky before. Taken shit from you and Puck, even. He can handle this. He's just a little shaken up."

It feels strange to be defending Kurt, but Coach Sylvester's managed to whip him into shape, and his skin care tips are actually doing fantastic things to Santana's complexion, so you know.

Finn nods and takes a deep breath before walking in completely the wrong direction. Santana grabs his arm and pulls him to the kitchen. Kurt already looks significantly better. The color is back in his cheeks, and he's chuckling quietly at something Brittany's saying.

Brittany cuts off mid-sentence when she notices Finn. Which isn't hard or anything since he's about the size of a mountain ape.

Brittany smiles. "Oh, hi Finn!"

Kurt rotates his head slightly to face them. "Finn, what are you doing here?"

"To give you a lift home. Santana told me what happened."

"Figured I wouldn't worry your dad," Santana explains.

Kurt stands up. Brittany does the same and pulls Kurt into a tight embrace. Kurt smiles at her as she pulls away.

Kurt approaches Finn, but he stops in front of Santana. "Drink lots of OJ," he says conspiratorially. "The vitamin C builds protective collagen around your blood vessels. I also have an extra tube of Bruise Relief that I'll pass to you tomorrow."

Santana manages a smile. "Thanks, Kurt."

Goodbyes are exchanged quickly and Kurt leaves with Finn. As soon as she shuts the front door, Santana's head starts to spin again. She tries to work through it, but Brittany catches on quickly and forces Santana to lie down on the couch.

Santana tries to look annoyed. "I'm not an invalid."

Brittany kisses her lightly. "Stay put. I'm going to get you some pills."

"I'm fine," Santana calls out, but Brittany is already gone.

Santana closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. Thanks to a schoolyard fistfight in the fifth grade, she knows what a bruised rib feels like and she doesn't have one. She's just a little sore, and more than a little pissed. She glances briefly down the length of her body. No visible bruising, at least, other than some discoloration around her wrist where Azimio had gripped her. Coach'll be pleased about that.

Santana is twisting her wrist around in the air when Brittany returns with two Advil and a glass of orange juice. She holds them out to Santana.

"Thanks, B." Santana props herself up, pops the pills in her mouth and swallows them dry.

Brittany nudges Santana aside and slides herself between the back of Santana's head and the couch. "Drink up," she instructs.

Santana gulps down some juice for Brittany's benefit, then lies back down, using Brittany's lap as a makeshift pillow. She smiles up at the blonde. "You'd look hot as hell in a nurse's uniform."

Brittany chuckles, brushing a hand over Santana's cheek. "Maybe for Halloween."

"You know I'd make you stay in and 'take care' of me all night, right?" Santana teases.

Brittany grins. "What about trick or treating?"

Santana pivots her head and presses her face briefly against Brittany's abdomen. "I'll give you all the sweets you can handle," she murmurs, pleased that Brittany's muscles practically undulate under her Cheerios uniform.

Brittany leans down and presses a kiss to Santana's forehead. "Promise?"

Santana smiles and holds out her pinky. Brittany eagerly wraps her finger around Santana's. Brittany's other hand begins to skim the edge of Santana's Cheerios top, and she gently rolls the fabric up, exposing Santana's abdomen.

Santana hums. "Oh, I see what this is," she quips. "Get me drugged up so you can have your way with me."

But Brittany is preoccupied, and her features twist worriedly as she studies Santana's skin. She pushes Santana's top higher, and her hand accidentally brushes against a particularly tender bruise on Santana's side. Santana flinches, inhaling sharply, and Brittany's hand snaps back.

"Britt…"

"It's not your job to protect everyone," Brittany says, eyes deep blue.

Santana sighs. "I know. I couldn't let those assholes get away with saying that shit though."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Brittany continues.

"Just a couple of bruises," Santana dismisses. "I'll be fine."

"Santana."

Santana sits up and pulls her top back down. "You've known me for a long time, Britt. This is the way I've always been. I don't back down to _anyone_."

"Boys aren't scrawny anymore," Brittany points out quietly. "Azimio is really strong."

Even though the bruises lining her body are evidence of this fact, Santana shakes her head. "I gave that son of a bitch a nosebleed, okay? I'd say I win."

Gently, Brittany turns her around. "Will you just be careful?" she asks, tone soft but serious. Her hand skims Santana's side again, but so lightly this time, as though Santana would break otherwise. "I hurt when you're hurting."

Santana plays with the hem of Brittany's skirt. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

Brittany smiles appreciatively and leans closer. "Thank you," she murmurs against Santana's lips.

Santana pulls Brittany closer to kiss her more thoroughly, and Brittany eagerly climbs to straddle Santana's lap, careful not to press against Santana's midsection. Santana's hands slide under Brittany's top and roam to her bare back, eager to touch warm flesh and smooth skin. Brittany instinctively grinds down against Santana's lap, and Santana hisses, fingers gripping around polyester and tugging up over Brittany's head.

Santana lifts from Brittany's lips long enough to dive down to lavish attention to the curve of Brittany's breasts, but something past Brittany's bra catches her eye. Something ugly and purple and the shape of Azimio's fucking _elbow_ , right along the bottom of Brittany's ribcage, marring Brittany's perfect cream skin.

"Son of a _bitch_ ," Santana curses, irate. "I'm going to slice that piece of shit's fucking dick clean off."

Brittany lifts Santana's chin and presses a pacifying kiss to Santana's lips. "Use your big girl words."

Santana sighs, hand hovering dangerously over the bruise. "Britt, I told you to stay clear."

"He was punching you," Brittany explains.

"I don't care if he was fucking gagging me with his jock strap, okay? _Stay out of it_."

To Santana's surprise, Brittany bristles. "I don't need you to protect me all the time, Santana. I can take care of myself."

"When the fuck did I say you couldn't?" Santana fires back. She takes a breath and counts to five in her head, trying to remember that her anger is wholly misdirected. "I know you can take care of yourself," she continues in a kinder tone. "I know that, and I'm sorry I raised my voice." She tilts her head to study Brittany. "I just don't want you coming to blows with jackasses like Azimio. He could hurt you."

"And you," Brittany huffs, her words still clipped. "What makes you invincible?"

Santana sighs, reaching up to stroke Brittany's cheek. "I'm not," she admits. "I just tough it out because my pride's more important to me than a few bruises on my skin."

"Your safety's more important to me than an elbow to the chest," Brittany says with so much clarity and certainty that Santana's breath catches.

Santana leans forward, burying her face into Brittany's neck. She leaves a trail of kisses up to Brittany's earlobe. "I love you," she breathes against the shell of Brittany's ear, smiling when the blonde shudders. Santana pulls back and dramatically presses her open hand flat against her chest, over her heart. "I hereby pledge to get into fewer fights," she announces.

Brittany laughs as she cups Santana's cheeks and plants a short kiss to her nose. "I love _you_ ," she echoes with ease. "And thank you. Although…" Brittany grins deviously. "You'd look pretty hot dressed up as a knight in shining armor."

Santana chuckles as she pulls Brittany closer. "Maybe for Halloween."

\--

Finn shows up to the next Glee rehearsal with a cut lip. Not entirely surprising, given his tendency to walk into inanimate objects. Santana only wonders what the hell was high enough for Finn to have hit his mouth against. The ceiling fan, maybe. She smirks. She's such an ass sometimes.

But then Puck walks in sporting a gash on his cheek, and Mike's nose looks freshly bashed in, and those two are dexterous enough to dodge incoming objects, so Santana isn't so sure about her ceiling fan theory anymore. Matt hobbles in after them, clearly favoring his left leg.

None of them say a word as they take their seats. Brittany sits behind Mike and makes him lean his head back against her lap because a trickle of blood is rolling down his upper lip. Tina dutifully hands Brittany a tissue.

Santana leans toward Puck. "Did you get some new additions to your fight club or something?" she asks, glancing briefly in Finn's direction. But Puck completely ignores her so she punches him in the arm.

Puck actually flinches and grabs his bicep. " _Fuck_ , Lopez."

Santana frowns, ignoring the looks she's getting from the other members. "What's the matter with you? Who knocked you around?"

Puck glares at the rest of the room. "Nobody."

Santana turns to Mike. "What the hell did you guys _do_?"

"Nothing," Mike mutters through the tissue Brittany has pressed against his nose.

Santana glances at Brittany, who shrugs. Finn has taken a seat behind the drum set, but he isn't looking at anyone. Artie and Tina are observing quietly from the other side of Mike. Tina still has a tissue box sitting on her lap. Kurt is holding an aerosol can in his hand, mid-spritz, as he looks back and forth between Santana and Finn. By the piano, Mercedes and Quinn are standing together with matching bewildered expressions. Matt just appears entirely too fascinated by his own sneakers.

Santana has no idea where Rachel is. Stubby's usually the first one in and the last one out. Not that Santana has made an active effort to notice or anything. She turns back to Puck, but before she can beat an explanation out of him, he rockets out of his chair and toward the door. Santana touches Brittany's arm briefly before chasing after Puck.

The hallway is still fairly busy, but Santana catches Puck as he sneaks into an isolated corner next to the water fountain nobody drinks from.

"Puck, cut it out," she hisses. "Someone punched you. Tell me who so I can go smash his face in."

"That's cute, but we got it," Puck replies. He runs a hand across the top of his head and sighs. "Look, we heard about what Azimio and Karofsky did to you guys, okay? We weren't about to take it lying down."

Santana isn't sure whether to be surprised, confused, or touched. She settles for disbelieving. "You guys took on those cavemen?"

"Yeah, and like half the hockey team, but we took care of them," Puck insists. "Matt and I know our way around a brawl, and Chang's a stick figure but he's got some insane kung fu shit going on."

"And Finn?"

"Still punches like a toddler," Puck smirks, "but he's got size."

Santana stares at him for a moment, then softens. "You guys didn't have to go do that."

"Not just for you," Puck argues. "Every time we don't fight back, they gain a little more ammunition. You know how it is. How they are."

"As much as I enjoy seeing them getting the shit beat out of them, I don't want it to be at the expense of one of your limbs, all right? At least not before regionals. We still have a showdown with that Jesse kid and we can't do it with the four of you on crutches."

Puck makes a face. "You don't give a shit about Glee Club. What's up with you, Lopez? What's with the pacifist act?" Realization flashes across his face. "Brittany," he says with a knowing smirk. "That girl—" Puck laughs.

"Yeah, whatever," Santana dismisses, rolling her eyes.

"No, no, she's good for you," Puck continues in the same amused tone. "Just don't start asking me to do your hair and we're cool."

"This uniform protects me, okay?" Santana says defensively. "I don't need to break a nail on those losers when I have a snarling bulldog named Sue Sylvester constantly hovering. This has nothing to do with Brittany," she fibs.

Puck makes a whipping motion with his hand. "Wh- _tsh_."

"Shut the fuck up," Santana grumbles.

Puck grins. "No, hey, I'd give up a little aggression too if I was promised unlimited sex in return."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Will you quit making assumptions about my sex life?"

"But why? It's so much fun."

Santana grimaces. "It's creepy."

"And _hot_ ," Puck insists with a cocky grin.

Santana opens her mouth to counter, but before she gets a word out, Rachel brushes by her, and the short brunette is _pissed_.

"Noah Puckerman. I just heard. That was highly irresponsible. What if you had injured yourself to the point of physical disability? Regionals is next weekend. Are you trying to ruin my life?"

Puck holds his arms out defensively. "Calm down, Berry. We're all fine. Besides, that Artie kid is already in a wheelchair. We'd have fit right in."

Rachel balls her fists up at her side. "This is no joking matter, Noah."

Puck shrugs. "Why are you coming after me? There were three other dudes there."

"Already got to them," Rachel replies dismissively. "I am very time-efficient. Now, let's talk about your complete lack of judgment and responsibility."

Santana laughs as she backs away. "Let him have it, Berry."


	10. Chapter 10

"The scab that is Will Schuester will face the full wrath of one Sue Sylvester this Saturday afternoon, and you three will be my witnesses."

Kurt looks bleakly at Santana and Brittany.

"Coach, if I may…"

Sue Sylvester turns to glare at Kurt.

"It's just—we were hoping that given our impressive win at nationals, you would be more lenient on us at regionals." Kurt swallows hard. "For Glee," he clarifies unnecessarily.

"I've never used the word 'lenient' in my life, do you know why? Because it _reeks_ of weakness and failure. It's like you couldn't decide if you were going to wear sandals or clogs so you compromised and slipped on a pair of crocs. Revolting."

Kurt falls silent.

"Mark my words: I am going to _crush_ Glee Club. Now get out of my office before I catch bi-curious from your fondue pot of sexual orientations."

All three are quiet as they leave Coach's office, then the school building. Halfway across the parking lot, Brittany and Santana wave goodbye to an inconsolable Kurt. Santana knows that this is supposed to mean more to Kurt, but she can't help but struggle against a deep wave of disappointment. It's not even so much her desire to crush Vocal Adrenaline or prove that she's the best. She knows what coming in last will mean for the future of the club, and Glee has grown on her.

"This sucks," Brittany finally says when they've reached Santana's car.

"Yeah," Santana agrees.

"I don't want Glee to end," Brittany adds quietly.

Santana looks down and scuffs her sneakers. "I know, me neither. But if Coach gets her way, it will."

"This sucks," Brittany repeats.

Santana leans in and kisses Brittany quickly. "Let's not worry about that now, okay?" she asks, leaning in to unlock her car door. "Let Schuester figure it out."

Brittany nods and climbs into Santana's car. Santana rounds the vehicle and does the same, and she drives them home in silence.

\--

Santana's mother is sitting in the living room when they enter, and Brittany gravitates to her. Santana solemnly follows behind.

" _Buenas tardes, mijas_."

" _Buenas tardes_ ," Brittany echoes, slumping down onto the couch next to Santana's mother.

The older woman looks back and forth between the two. "What's the matter, girls?"

"Coach Sylvester is one of the judges at show choir regionals. She's out to make sure Glee Club comes in last, so it gets cancelled for next year and Glee's budget is restored to the Cheerios," Santana roughly outlines.

"How can she judge when one of the schools she teaches at is competing?" her mother asks with knit brows.

Santana shrugs. "The Ohio Show Choir Committee or whatever doesn't seem to care."

Her mother looks at the two girls helplessly. "I can file a complaint," she offers.

Santana shakes her head. "No, Mama, it's no use. We just have to suck it up and perform. Hope the other judges aren't swayed by Coach's tricks." She sighs and sits down next to Brittany. "Whatever. I don't care. It's just Glee. It's not going to get me a scholarship to college."

"It's fun though," Brittany says quietly. "I love dancing."

Santana takes Brittany's hand into her own. "You don't need Glee to dance, B."

Brittany looks up. "Yeah, but it wouldn't be the same."

"Listen to me, mijas," Santana's mother cuts in, her words laced with conviction. "You two are going to go out there and have the time of your lives and look stunning doing it, okay? And I'm going to be sitting in the audience cheering you on no matter what happens. Winning isn't everything."

And it's such a motherly thing to say that Santana tenses, instinctively cautious. Brittany gives Santana's hand a reassuring squeeze.

Santana's mother rises from her seat. "I'm going to make you girls some chicken stew," she announces. "A little pick-me-up."

Brittany pulls Santana up and drags her to the kitchen after her mother. The older Lopez busies herself with her stew, and the two girls slide into seats around the kitchen table.

"I found a new job," Santana's mother says. "It's just some clerical work down at the courthouse to pay the bills, but I enrolled in some night classes to get a teaching certification. I want to teach Spanish."

Brittany smiles. "Like Mr. Schuester."

Santana makes a face. "Please, Mama, if you ever start doing that ridiculous clapping thing he does, I'm going to have to disown you."

Her mother looks curiously at them. "Don't mock your teachers, Mija. I'm going to be one."

"I'm sorry, but your students are going to mock you, even if you're the greatest one to walk the state of Ohio." A thought occurs to Santana. "Oh god, Mama, you're not going to teach at McKinley High, are you?"

Her mother laughs. "No, I'm actually not teaching teenagers at all. I'm hoping to teach Spanish to elementary-level students."

"Those midgets are going to destroy your will to live," Santana deadpans.

Her mother tosses Santana a dirty look. "What a lovely thing to say."

"You would be an awesome teacher," Brittany assesses.

The older woman smiles. "Thank you, Brittany. See? Brittany believes in me."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Brittany also believes in unicorns."

Brittany spends the better part of the next hour explaining why there's a distinct possibility that unicorns are in fact real, and even though Santana thinks it's nuts, she lets her, occasionally tossing in an argument just to watch Brittany fluster and counter with renewed urgency. It's _adorable_ , for a lack of better term that doesn't make Santana sound like a Powerpuff Girl. (The blue one reminds Santana of Brittany. Bubbles, or whatever, which she only knows because Brittany had made her watch it once and Santana has an awesome memory. She definitely did _not_ google it or anything.)

And when the chicken stew is ready and Santana's mother serves it to them and Brittany burns her tongue, there's something so familiar and comfortable about the whole thing that for a moment, Santana almost believes in unicorns too.

Just for one split second though; she's not like, a total sucker or anything.

\--

Regionals arrives, and even with the nagging feeling that Sue Sylvester is going to go and fuck it all up for them, Santana is excited about performing. She even has a solo this time, which had thrilled Brittany more than anyone else.

They'd gotten to the competition without a nervous breakdown, and now, it becomes a waiting game. The girls and guys separate to get changed into their costumes.

Brittany is working on Santana's hair when Quinn clutches her belly suddenly.

Mercedes touches Quinn's arm. "Quinn, you okay?"

"You're not going to pop her out on stage, are you?" Santana asks. "Because if you start dribbling baby juice down your legs, that will pretty much guarantee that we lose this thing."

Quinn glares at her. "Shut up, Santana. I'm not due for another three weeks. She just kicks a lot."

"An active fetus is a good sign," Rachel pipes up. "My dads said I was quite the kicker before I was born."

Santana turns to Rachel. "And Quinn wants her baby to be just like you because…?"

"Because I don't assuage my own insecurities by picking relentlessly on other people," Rachel fires back.

"And because she's talented," Quinn adds, tossing Santana a dirty look.

Rachel beams, and Santana rolls her eyes. She is _so_ not down with this friendship.

Brittany finishes up Santana's hair, and Santana exchanges places with her to return the favor. Brittany sits patiently, her foot tapping a rhythm against the floor as she hums _Any Way You Want It_.

As she's pulling on Brittany's headband, Santana leans down next to Brittany's ear. "You're so hot," she whispers.

Everyone in the room turns to stare at her, and damn it, she needs to learn to be more discreet.

"Santana," Rachel acknowledges, "please refrain from distracting Brittany with your verbal flirtations before our performance."

Brittany rotates her head to look at Santana, and she has such a beautiful smile across her face that Santana doesn't even bother to tell Rachel to can it. Instead, she leans down to press a gentle kiss on Brittany's lips.

Brittany laughs. "Are you trying to distract me? Or just annoy Rachel?"

"Little of both," Santana replies, shooting Rachel a smug grin.

Rachel rolls her eyes and returns to applying Tina's makeup.

Santana lifts Brittany's hair to plant a kiss to her bare shoulder. "You do look smoking though," she says affectionately.

Brittany grins. "Oh, I know." She reaches up to tug at Santana's dress strap, pulling her closer. "And you," she whispers, so close that her lips brush Santana's as she speaks.

Santana is legitimately calculating whether they have enough time to sneak away for a quickie when Rachel hovers over them, hands on her hips.

"Santana, go help Tina," she instructs. "I'll finish doing Brittany's hair, since you cannot seem to handle it without having erotic lesbian fantasies."

Santana's first impulse is to smash her fist into Rachel's face, but she holds back, partly because Rachel's singing would be off with a broken nose, but mostly because Brittany is gripping Santana's wrists with a strength Santana's never known her to have.

"Go," Brittany tells her with a grin. "You're driving me crazy. That won't be a problem if we swap. No offense, Rachel."

"None taken," Rachel reassures the blonde.

Santana sighs. "Fine," she resigns, backing away. "Just keep your hands to yourself, Berry."

Santana approaches Tina and slumps into the seat next to her.

Tina smiles, as though offering peace. "Sorry about that."

"Yeah," is all Santana says.

She looks at Tina, at the pink streaks in her dark hair. She doesn't even remember if she's ever picked on the girl, but judging by the way Tina is watching her, half-cautious and half-hesitant, she probably has.

Santana clears her throat. "You want some help with, uh—"

"I'm actually done," Tina replies, "so—"

"Yeah, me too."

"Oh," Tina says.

Santana drums her fingers anxiously against her chair. She doesn't do this. Talk to people, especially weird, shy people obsessed with the occult. She looks over at the others. Quinn is fixing Mercedes's hair, and Rachel is applying blush to Brittany's cheeks. She wonders if she can just sneak out of there and go hang with Puck and the guys.

Tina pulls out a bottle of black nail polish and a manicure kit. "I can do your nails? My mom works in a spa. She's taught me all the tricks."

Santana looks down at Tina's nails, and they actually are rather immaculate. "Yeah, okay, sure," she replies, holding out her hand.

Tina lights up and opens her manicure kit. As Tina works on Santana's nails, they actually manage to strike up a conversation about school, and Glee, and family. Random, irrelevant things; important things. Santana learns that Tina shares her taste in music ("I don't actually listen to creepy death music," Tina reassures her.) and by the time all ten of her nails are painted and flawlessly filed, Santana has a date with Tina and Artie to see a local band together.

Weirdest. Thing. Ever.

Freshman Santana would totally be kicking sophomore Santana's ass right about now. But Tina is good at doing nails and stereotype-shatteringly bad at math and laughs like she genuinely means it, kind of like Brittany does, so Santana can't hate her too much. Or well, at all, it turns out.

Once all the girls are finally dressed and made up, Rachel makes them form a small circle.

"Just remember," Rachel says, "whatever happens—"

Brittany has Santana's hand in a vice grip, so Santana bites back her sarcastic retort.

"—we've come so far," Rachel continues, "and we should be proud of our accomplishments."

Rachel looks around the circle. "Eight months ago, I never would've imagined we'd be here. Well, I was confident we'd make it to regionals, given my obvious talent, but I had no idea the journey would be quite this dramatic. And while some of you—" Rachel looks blatantly at Santana. "—seem to believe we need to be mortal enemies, your camaraderie has meant a lot to me this year, and I hope that regardless what happens to Glee, we'll continue to be friends."

"We will," Brittany says, nudging Rachel with her shoulder, and everyone else nods in agreement.

Torturous speech over, the six of them flock to the main waiting area. All the guys are already there, dressed up and looking _good_.

With everyone pumped to perform, the wait begins to drag on, especially when Aural Intensity closes with a mash-up dedicated to two of the judges. Still, the group pulls it together and even Santana is in high spirits when they finally take to the stage.

From behind the closed curtains, Santana listens for the sounds of Rachel and Finn's duet as they open their performance. The first words drift across the auditorium, and for all of Rachel's grating qualities, her voice gives Santana the fucking _goosebumps_.

Finn and Rachel's voices grow closer and closer, and Santana's pulse picks up. When the curtains rise and the sounds of the audience's cheers fill the stage, Santana knows only this moment, this music, and her voice harmonizing with eleven others.

They transition smoothly into their second number, a mash-up. Santana smiles her way through the song, a strange sense of pride coursing through her when Puck steps forward for his solo. She flies around the stage, her body guided by the music, and when Brittany twirls and spins, Sue Sylvester is the last thing on Santana's mind.

They close with _Don't Stop Believin'_ , and Santana knows this one means more to the original six than it does to her, but it's a fitting song, one that represents something different for each of them but is still ultimately a message of unity, of hope. Under the bright spotlight, inebriated by the music, even Santana embraces that thought.

Santana steps forward, her heart pounding as adrenaline coursing through her, filling her with the desire to nail her solo and make the most of her moment to shine. She listens for her cue, waits for Puck, then the first notes spill from her lips and she experiences a rush she's never known.

Puck's hand is gentle on her forearm as they spin, and he's looking at her like he knows what she's thinking, why she's smiling. Behind her, ten glowing faces. In front of her, hundreds of show choir enthusiasts, friends, family… including her own. Her mother is there, and Santana doesn't know where exactly, but it doesn't matter. She's there, listening, watching, _loving_. Even if Santana won't admit it to herself, that's all she's ever really wanted.

 _For a smile they can share the night; it goes on and on and on…_

\--

Santana had been totally joking about Quinn popping out her baby on stage, but it turns out she hadn't been far off base.

She's the last one off stage, so she catches Quinn talking to her mother, and _what_. She almost steps right between them and punches Judy fucking Fabray in the face, but she recalls what Quinn had said when Santana had asked her whether she'd go for a reconciliation, so Santana backs off and keeps her distance, only casting one cautious glance at the older woman.

Santana doesn't wander far though, because as far as she knows, Quinn's mother could be here to punch the baby out of Quinn's belly, and Santana has to be on hand to knock Judy Fabray's fucking teeth out if she tries to pull a stunt like that.

She doesn't catch much of the conversation itself, but when Judy cries, "oh my _god_ ," and Quinn turns helplessly to Glee Club with a small pool of water at her feet, everyone jumps up and starts talking at once.

" _Shut the fuck up, all of you_ ," Santana yells over the other voices, pleased that the chatter dies down a little.

Puck is already at Quinn's side, trying unsuccessfully to avoid getting baby juice all over his shiny new shoes. Mercedes follows close behind and grabs Quinn's other arm.

"Judy," Santana addresses, "for fuck's sake, go get your car started. Your daughter's about to pop out your grandkid."

Judy Fabray is too shocked to even look mildly offended by Santana's tone. She hesitates one moment before running off. Puck and Mercedes try to help Quinn out, but the blonde is either too shaken or in too much pain to move, because she doesn't budge. Puck looks ready to toss Quinn over his shoulder when Artie rolls up and pats his lap.

"I'll wheel her out."

Tina runs into one of the dressing rooms and comes back with a towel, which she folds over Artie's lap.

"That's not going to help much," Santana points out. "Your pants are going to get soaked, especially if she starts gushing."

"That's okay," Artie says.

"Go ahead, Quinn," Tina urges. "I've ridden him a thousand times."

Tina immediately flushes, but Santana's pretty sure that in the chaos, she's the only one who catches it. Even Puck, preoccupied by his impending fatherhood, lets it go.

Artie rolls closer, and Mercedes helps Quinn sit down on Artie's lap. Immediately, Artie's arms wrap securely around Quinn's body. Puck gets behind Artie's wheelchair and pushes them out of the room. Mercedes and Tina run after them.

Santana turns to the other six. "Okay, we need one person – not me – to stay here to keep an eye on Vocal Adrenaline and show up at the award ceremony in case we don't get back in time."

"Although I would really like to be at the hospital when Quinn delivers," Rachel says, stepping forward, "as team captain, it is my responsibility to stay. Please send Quinn my best wishes."

Santana nods. "Everyone else, follow me. We're going to make it to that hospital even if I have to bust open our bus and drive that monster myself."

Santana leads Brittany, Finn, Kurt, Mike, and Matt out of the backstage area. Vocal Adrenaline is getting set up on stage as they rush past.

"Get out of the fucking _way_ ," Santana grunts as she bulldozes past a few spectators wandering the aisles.

There's a small gathering of people near the exit, and it isn't until Santana is a few feet away that she realizes her mother is in the crowd. Upon closer inspection, so are Brittany's parents, Rachel's dads, the Hudson-Hummel pair, and others Santana can only assume are the parents of her other teammates, as well as a few younger siblings, including Brittany's sister.

Her mother catches her arm. "We saw Quinn being rushed out. None of us know our way around this part of Ohio, so we found your bus driver. He agreed to drive all of you to the hospital. He's out back, but hurry."

Relieved that threats of violence and hijackings are not in her immediate future, Santana leans in and lightly pecks her mother's cheek. "Thanks so much, Mama." She runs out, calling over her shoulder, "All of you, boo Vocal Adrenaline for us!"

When they reach the bus, Puck and Tina are helping Artie and Quinn onto the wheelchair ramp. Everyone else – including Quinn's mom – piles in, and the bus driver takes off for the hospital.

Puck lifts Quinn off Artie's lap and helps her to a seat. Under the towel, Artie's pants are soaked through.

Santana grimaces and says, "I told you."

Artie shrugs. "Today, I was a hero. Pants can be changed."

Tina nods and smiles proudly at him, and why it's okay for her boyfriend to have another girl's amniotic fluids all over his boy parts is beyond Santana – because fucking _gross_ – but she leaves that one alone.

Quinn clutches her stomach, and her mother actually calms down long enough to show Quinn some breathing techniques. Mercedes grabs one of Quinn's hands and holds on. Puck hovers in the seat behind them, looking a little unsure, a lot helpless.

Santana slides in next to Puck. "Relax, Puckerman."

Puck doesn't say anything, but his shoulders loosen and he lets out a breath.

The bus races down narrow roads, making sharp turns, but the driver knows what he's doing. Fifteen minutes and about three traffic offenses later, he's pulling the bus up to the emergency room entrance. Puck jumps off the bus first to call for a wheelchair.

Quinn stands without help, but she doesn't look very steady on her feet, so Santana hooks Quinn's arm over her shoulders and grabs Quinn around the back.

"Easy, Fabray," Santana mutters. "Breathe. And clamp it up for a few more minutes."

Santana guides Quinn off the bus and plops her into the wheelchair Puck has propped up by the door. Puck pushes away, and everyone follows in a messy line after them.

As they're turning into the delivery room, Quinn reaches for Mercedes, and Santana thinks that maybe Kurt had been right about them after all. If he reads people as well as he reads beauty product labels, well… Santana's got to give him credit for that.

Quinn, her mother, Puck and Mercedes disappear behind a closed door, and the rest of them are ushered into a waiting room nearby.

If the wait for their turn at regionals had been excruciating, Santana doesn't even know what properly describes this.

\--

Mercedes comes out of the delivery room first, looking tired but absolutely _glowing_.

"Ten fingers, ten toes; seven pounds, three ounces," she announces with all the pride of an aunt, and Santana thinks it actually really suits her.

Excited chatter breaks out among the group. Brittany's hand is tight around Santana's, and the blonde is grinning from ear to ear.

"When can we see her?" Tina asks.

"They're cleaning Quinn up now," Mercedes replies, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "As soon as they move them out of the delivery room, y'all can go and see her and the baby. Gorgeous little thing."

Puck walks out a few minutes later with his hands in his pockets, some residue shock still evident across his features. Santana approaches him and nudges his side.

"Hey, papa," she teases lightly.

Puck just kind of smiles at her.

Santana pats him on the shoulder. "You handling everything okay?"

Puck's head tilts in a short nod. "Yeah," he breathes. "That was—yeah."

Santana smirks. "The babymaker doesn't look so nice mid-birth, does it?"

Puck chuckles. "You're sick, Lopez."

Santana laughs, and before she can process what she's doing, she has her arms wrapped gently around Puck. She thinks of what he's been through this year, how he's changed, and the way he'd looked with her up on stage, a hint of maturity fleshing out his features. She even finds herself tearing up a little at the thought, but she quickly composes herself. Just adrenaline and hormones.

Puck is grinning at her when they pull apart. "You know, Santana, you're really kind of a sap."

Santana punches him on the shoulder in response.

\--

As soon as they get the okay, all ten of them make their way to Quinn's hospital room door. It's open, and Quinn is lying down, hair tossed across her pillow. Her mother is standing at her bedside.

Quinn smiles when she notices the commotion at the door. "Hey," she says softly.

Brittany enters first and skips to Quinn's side. "Hi," she greets affectionately, reaching to brush a few strands of Quinn's hair out of her face.

Everyone else files into the room and spaces themselves around the perimeter of the bed. Quinn's mother moves aside to make room. Santana squeezes in between Brittany and Finn and slips her hand around Quinn's clammy one.

"How do you feel?" Santana asks softly.

"Exhausted," Quinn replies with a dry laugh, "and sore. _So_ sore."

A flurry of awkward chuckles pass between the guys, and Quinn rolls her eyes.

"Hey, where's Rachel?" she asks suddenly, looking from face to face.

Santana smirks. "Don't tell me you didn't notice how the ride over lacked any amount of neurosis."

"I was a little busy being _in labor_ , Santana," Quinn fires back, but there's a faint smile across her lips.

"Someone had to stay behind," Kurt finally explains. "Rachel volunteered."

"She really wanted to be here though," Brittany adds.

Quinn hums in acknowledgement. "Is she mad that I wrestled everyone's attention from our performance?"

"Hey, no, of course not," Finn pipes up, his voice coming out a little louder than he'd probably intended. Everyone turns to look at him, and he shrinks slightly under the scrutiny. "We're all just glad you and the baby are healthy and safe and stuff."

Brittany looks around the room with legitimate concern etched across her features. "Where's the baby?"

Quinn smiles. "She's in the nursery, Britt."

"Can we go see her?" Mike asks.

"Yeah, sure." Quinn turns to the foot of the bed. "Mercedes, could you—"

Mercedes nods. "Come on, you guys," she says, signaling for everyone to follow her.

With quick 'be right back's and 'see you later's, the group scatters until only Brittany and Santana remain.

Brittany tugs at Santana's arm, but Santana stays put, her hand still holding Quinn's.

Brittany tilts her head in confusion. "Aren't you coming?"

"Yeah, in a few," Santana replies. "Go ahead, Britt. I'll catch up with you guys."

"Okay," Brittany replies, pressing a quick kiss to Santana's shoulder before running after the rest of the group.

Quinn appears a little confused, but she turns to her mother and says, "Mom, could you give us a sec?"

Judy Fabray looks hesitantly between the two girls but finally leaves the room without a word.

Quinn pushes herself up and then groans and leans back down. "God _damn_ , I should've had a c-section."

Santana chuckles. "Sorry."

Quinn smiles. "It's not too bad."

"No, I—I'm sorry," Santana stammers, her hand tightening around Quinn's.

Quinn's smile fades. "Santana?"

"You were right," Santana says quietly, hating the way her voice sounds so small.

"About what?"

"Everything. Me." She looks up. "I was ecstatic when I found out about your pregnancy. Over the fucking moon, because it meant I'd finally get a shot at head cheerleader." She winces at her own words. "Your life was falling apart and instead of helping you through it, I turned my back on you and took Brittany with me. Every decision I made, everything I said or did, it was all for me. N-not even for Brittany. _God_ , I couldn't even be good for _Brittany_."

"Santana…"

"We _were_ friends," Santana cuts in, suddenly fighting tears. "Last year, I mean. The three of us were inseparable. Brittany _loved_ you, and I—I chose to see the worst in you. In everyone. Maybe I just envied you; I don't even know, but you didn't deserve all the shit I gave you." She flushes. "I'm so sorry, Q," she finishes softly, knowing her words don't take back the hurt but also knowing that it's a start.

"San." Quinn sighs and stares up at the ceiling. "If it'd been the other way around, you know I would've done the same thing to you. That was just who we were back then."

"Maybe, but it wasn't the other way around. It was this." She runs her fingertips down Quinn's forearm. "It wasn't okay."

"Spilt milk, and all that," Quinn dismisses gently. "You know I've forgiven you."

Santana nods, her heart tender. "Are you going back to live with your mom?" she asks after a moment.

Quinn tenses. "No, I'm staying with Mercedes and her family for a little while longer, at least until my mom sorts out her divorce. I refuse to be caught in the middle of that."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yeah," Quinn sighs. "She didn't understand, and I didn't expect her to."

Santana clutches Quinn's hand protectively. "If you need someone to kick some sense into her—"

Quinn chuckles. "I could always count on you for bloodshed. Hopefully though, it won't be necessary. I do miss her. I just can't go back to that house right now."

"I know," Santana says with a small nod. "You take your time. And if Mercedes's parents get sick of you, my mom's back now, so…"

Quinn smiles appreciatively. "Thank you."

"Yeah," Santana breathes. She glances briefly at the doorway and decides, "I'll stay with you until they get back, okay?"

Quinn nods. "Hey," she says, reaching to touch Santana's arm. "I'm getting back on that cheerleading squad next year, you know. I'm coming after your captaincy."

Santana only grins. "Bring it, Fabray. _Bring it_."

\--

Brittany takes Santana to see Quinn's baby after everyone has returned from their first venture to the nursery.

"That one," Brittany says, pointing to a tiny little thing sleeping peacefully in her tiny little crib.

Santana can't help but smile. She can already see the faintest traces of Quinn's nose, Puck's chin.

Brittany nudges Santana. "You think Quinn's gonna keep her?"

"No," Santana answer softly, as though afraid of waking the baby. "And I think that's the right decision. For both of them, and Puck."

"Can _we_ keep her?"

Santana laughs. "You want to change her dirty diapers?"

Brittany smiles and turns back to the nursery, but she doesn't say anything. Santana slips her hand into Brittany's and squeezes.

"Having a baby is scary," Brittany murmurs.

Santana watches Quinn's baby for a moment. "It totally is."

"I want some though," Brittany says thoughtfully. "I mean, eventually, like when I'm older."

"How many?" Santana asks, keeping her eyes on the sleeping baby.

"At least one or two. Maybe more." Brittany turns to Santana. "What about you?"

Santana shrugs. "Never really thought about it," she replies, even though her answer before today has always been 'none'. She frowns. "You do know that we can't have kids without like, help, right?"

"Yeah," Brittany nods, "but Rachel's dads did it." She's quiet for a moment, then, "I don't need kids, Santana."

"But you want them," Santana states quietly.

Brittany shrugs. "I just want you."

"I want to give you everything you want, Britt," Santana says, finally rotating to face Brittany.

"I know," Brittany replies, smoothing a hand over the front of Santana's dress. "It's really far away, San. I don't even know what I'm going to eat for supper tonight."

Santana sighs. "I like knowing how things are going to work out. Plans; I like plans."

Brittany tugs gently at Santana's body, pulling her closer. "Nobody knows what's going to happen tomorrow," she says gently. As an afterthought, she adds, "Unless you're Professor Trelawney, but you keep telling me Hogwarts isn't real, so."

Santana laughs. "Because it isn't."

Brittany smiles at her. "The last time we had this argument…"

A flush creeps up Santana's neck. "We're not having make-up sex in the middle of the hospital," she preempts, keeping her voice low.

Brittany shrugs playfully, as though saying _your loss_ , and Santana curses and tries to keep it in her pants. Or under her dress. Whatever. They both turn to watch Quinn's baby in silence for a few more minutes. Brittany coos when the tiny thing fusses momentarily, her little fist brushing the side of her head.

"It's not that I don't _want_ kids," Santana blurts out. "I just—with my mom and everything…"

"Santana, stop," Brittany instructs, cutting her off. Her eyes soften. "I love you, and I want to keep loving you and kissing you and having really hot sex with you." She grins coyly. "Everything else is optional."

Santana leans in and kisses Brittany, trying desperately to show everything she does not have the words to verbalize. Everything about how something flickers inside her at the idea of tiny little blond-haired blue-eyed toddlers running around. Everything about how she's too young to know, too jaded to believe, too terrified of everything she feels all the time. Everything Brittany probably already knows and just accepts – no, _embraces_ – unconditionally.

Brittany's hand slides up to Santana's shoulder, assuredly brushing past hair to reach the nape of Santana's neck. A low groan escapes Santana's throat, and she deepens the kiss, her hands coming to rest against the small of Brittany's back and pulling her in, their dresses pressing together. Brittany whimpers, her hand tightening against the back of Santana's neck, and Santana pulls away slightly.

"You have my heart," Santana tells her, the words streaming out like she's never known any other truth. "You _are_ my heart. My whole fucking _heart_."

A delighted smile spreads across Brittany's face, and it's the most beautiful thing Santana has ever seen. She laughs and pulls the blonde into her arms, just holding her close because she can, right there in the middle of the neonatal ward, running high on adrenaline and emotions and the surest sense of security.

A few nurses are staring, and a woman holding a young child has her hand pressed firmly against the little girl's eyes, shielding her. But Santana doesn't care about the looks or the disapproval. Fuck everyone who thinks this is wrong when she's the only one who knows how she feels right now, in this instant, wrapped up in Brittany.

\--

Back in Quinn's hospital room, excited and nervous chatter has broken out. In the time that Brittany and Santana had spent at the nursery, the rest of the group had gotten a call from Rachel asking how everything had gone. In return, she'd informed them that Vocal Adrenaline has wrapped up their performance, and that the judges are in deliberation.

"I need to get back," Finn says, tucking his hands into his pockets. "I owe Rachel one for flaking out on photo day. I don't want her to be up there by herself."

"Go ahead," Quinn urges, looking around the room as she sits herself up. "Not just you, Finn. All of you should join Rachel on stage for the ceremony. This means a lot to her."

Everyone in the room begins to file out. Mike and Matt each give Quinn a gentle pat on the arm before leaving. Finn smiles awkwardly at Quinn and follows the two football players out. Artie, with a fresh pair of pants on, wheels up to Quinn's bedside with Tina directly behind him.

"Thanks, Artie," Quinn says with a faint smile. "I'm never going to forget what you did for me."

Artie beams. "Anytime, Quinn," he replies.

Santana wonders if maybe she'd underestimated just how much being a hero means to the wheelchair-bound boy.

Tina smiles brightly at Quinn and wheels Artie out. Mercedes and Kurt approach the bed.

"You gonna be okay, Quinn? We could stay around if you want." Mercedes looks up at Kurt, who nods.

Quinn shakes her head. "Go stand on that stage, Mercedes. You too, Kurt."

Mercedes and Kurt draw Quinn into an embrace, their heads pressed to either side of Quinn's face, and Santana has never craved siblings quite like she does right then. Damn, she's going soft, but hell, with the emotional rollercoaster that has been the past few weeks, she'll take it.

Once Mercedes and Kurt slip away arm-in-arm, Brittany slides to Quinn's side and leans in to brush a kiss to Quinn's cheek. "She's gorgeous, Quinn."

Santana settles for giving Quinn's hand a tight squeeze and Puck's shoulder a fistful of knuckle before leaving the room with Brittany and following the rest of Glee Club toward the exit. A moment later, Puck catches up to them.

Santana glances at him. "Not staying behind?"

Puck shrugs. "She wants us to be there with Rachel."

Their bus driver is waiting dutifully for them in the parking lot. The group piles on. Santana is the last one to board, and when no one is looking, she leans down next to the driver.

"I know nobody's in labor, but if you could get us back as quickly as you got us here, we'd all really appreciate it."

She wants to say she's not asking for Rachel, but well, the driver has no clue who that is, and also, she kind of _is_ asking for Rachel.

Their bus driver nods. "Take a seat and hang on."

The bus jerks out of the hospital parking lot, and Santana quickly seats herself to avoid being tossed around. She finds herself next to Puck, who still looks like he's carrying the weight of the world. Maybe he is. Or maybe it's only the weight of _his_ world, but for all his broad shoulders and muscular arms, he's still sixteen. Santana knows what that's like, to feel inadequately young.

Santana is staring straight ahead when she says quietly, "I'm here, you know."

Without looking at her, Puck briefly touches Santana's wrist.

\--

The stage is bright. Brighter than Santana remembers from their performance. Her heart is pounding again, like it knows something she doesn't. Like it knows that this is important to her, that she _wants_ this. To win, and not only for the sake of winning. Not just to see Jesse St. James walk out in shame. Not just for the trophy or the applause or even the personal satisfaction.

She wants to win for her teammates. Someone would have to beat the admission out of her, but there it is.

Brittany's hand is clasped firmly in Santana's, and Santana can feel the nervous energy flowing through the blonde. She tries to be strong for both of them, for all eleven of them and Quinn and even Mr. Schuester, but Santana knows that every one of them is shouldering their own weight, different but still heavy.

The judges file onto the stage, and Santana tries not to look at Coach Sylvester because she's always been good at reading Coach's sneers and she doesn't want to know a moment too soon.

Aural Intensity takes runner up. Santana tries not to react. Brittany's hand tightens, and Santana is squeezing back.

She hasn't seen Vocal Adrenaline's performance, nor had the opportunity to ask Rachel. She doesn't know if they've done enough. She feels like maybe they have.

But two words – the wrong ones – leave Sue Sylvester's lips, and it's all over. Santana's heart drops to her stomach as she tries to compose herself, the words _it's over it's over it's over_ ringing again and again in her head. She hangs onto Brittany and tries not to feel anything.

Rachel is standing directly in front of them, and Brittany's other hand slides to Rachel's shoulder. Brittany's head falls against Santana's collar, and Santana's next motion is robotic, but not insincere: She pats Rachel's arm and keeps her hand there.

\--

Puck, Mercedes, and Mercedes's parents rush off to the hospital immediately after the conclusion of the ceremony.

By the time the other members of New Directions catch up with their families, the auditorium has mostly cleared out. Nobody has said much at all since receiving the bad news, and the tiny trophy still clutched in Mr. Schue's hand mostly feels like a punch to the gut.

Santana's mother approaches and pulls Santana into her arms.

" _Estoy muy orgullosa de ti,_ " she murmurs.

"We lost," Santana cannot help but point out.

"Being proud of you has nothing to do with that," is all her mother says, and Santana thinks that she could live with that.

She looks around the room and sees Brittany with her family, Rachel with her dads, Kurt and Finn huddled together with their parents. Tina and Artie and Mike and Matt and their loved ones. She tightens her grip around her mother.

" _Gracias_ , Mama," she says softly.

Her mother just holds her. They're going to be okay, Santana decides. The two of them are going to be just fine.

A moment later, something small but strong runs into Santana's side. It's Brittany's sister.

Santana pulls away from her mother to smile at the little girl. Brittany sidles up to Santana, her arms slipping easily around Santana's midsection, and the two just hold each other, drawing comfort, because Glee is over and neither is supposed to be devastated but both are.

And when Brittany presses her lips lightly against Santana's, Santana's mother still looks away, but she smiles faintly at them when the kiss is over, and Santana thinks that maybe there's time for progress.

Santana drifts to Brittany's mother, and she hesitates only one moment before she's drawing Brittany's mother in, tightening her arms around the older woman.

"Thank you," Santana murmurs, squeezing her eyes shut. "Thank you for everything you've done, for loving me when I didn't know how to love anyone back."

And Brittany's mother, Santana knows, is not the only person for which those words are true.

\--

They collectively decide to return to the hospital. All nine of them who aren't there yet, and Mr. Schue. Their bus driver? Is a fucking godsend.

As the bus is chugging along, at a much more leisurely pace than the two previous rides, Rachel calls Quinn to inform her of their loss, even though she knows Puck and Mercedes are already there. It's her responsibility as captain, she explains to the rest of them. It feels like nothing more than pure masochism to Santana, but maybe Rachel really does carry the weight of the team on her shoulders.

With her rhinestone-encrusted phone against her ear, Rachel states the news matter-of-fact, like it doesn't hurt, like it's not _destroying_ her inside. Santana has to admire that, even if it is Rachel Obnoxiousface Berry.

Santana turns away, trying to focus on something else. The bus ride is long and feels unbearably empty. She grabs Brittany's hand and doesn't let go.

\--

At the hospital, the group heads toward Quinn's room again, solemnly this time. Quinn's mother is standing tensely with Mercedes's parents outside the doorway, making what sounds to Santana like really uncomfortable small talk. Santana can't help but wish every ounce of discomfort on the stupid bitch.

Mercedes greets them at the door. "Quinn and Puck are at the nursery," she explains before anyone can ask. "Figured they could use a little privacy."

Mr. Schuester joins the adults in conversation, and everyone else settles down to wait for Quinn and Puck's return. They actually end up being gone an absurdly long amount of time, considering Quinn doesn't even want to _keep_ this baby, but Santana maintains her cool and stays patient.

As Santana is contemplating whether to go and check up on them, Quinn and Puck appear around the corner and approach the four adults.

Quinn turns to Mercedes's mother instead of her own. "We found Beth an adoptive mother."

"Who?" Quinn's mother asks, but Quinn ignores her.

Mercedes's mother looks toward the direction of the nursery. "Just now?"

Quinn nods. "She's willing to take her right away."

"Who is it?" Mr. Schue asks, looking between Quinn and Puck uncertainly. "Do we—do we get to meet her?"

"You actually already have," Quinn replies, suddenly turning to glance uneasily at Rachel.

Rachel steps forward. "Quinn?"

"I—Rach, Shelby Corcoran wants to adopt Beth."

Rachel's immediate reaction is unreadable. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She closes it again.

Finn steps toward her and reaches out an arm, but it hovers awkwardly around her shoulder.

"I just need a moment," Rachel says evenly before turning to leave.

Finn looks around uncomfortably at the others before chasing after her.

Santana looks only at Quinn and Puck, reads the conflict across their features, and her heart hurts for the two of them. The worst part is that she knows she is completely powerless to fix this. She takes half a step forward, unsure, but before she can say anything, the adults are sweeping Quinn and Puck away, back to the nursery, back to Beth and Corcoran and the Big Damn Mess, and Santana has to swallow against the lump in her throat. The terrified glance Puck tosses her before he leaves etches into her memory.

As soon as they disappear behind a corner, nervous chatter breaks out among the group, but all Santana can do is hold Brittany's hand and wait.

\--

The adoption goes through – or at least, the preliminary stuff gets checked out – and Rachel and Finn are back, and it's been a long fucking day. It's dark out, and most of them have fielded phone calls from worried parents, but all of them stick it out for Quinn and Puck.

Santana doesn't even have the energy to complain about how much Shelby Corcoran is a total bitch, because really, what's the point? Salting those wounds isn't going to help anyone, and Quinn and Puck just look so damn _drained_. Only time will tell, anyway, and if she's learned anything from her mother, from Quinn, from the stupid club she already misses, it's that people can change. Maybe Shelby Corcoran, too.

Doesn't make the situation any less fucked up, but it's worth something, and sometimes, that's all anyone's really got.

\--

It's pitch black outside by the time they load up the bus one last time. There's sadness in the air, but there's also some relief, a little pride, and the faintest hint of hope.

Brittany is still holding Santana's hand, but Santana looks briefly at Puck sitting alone at the back and Brittany gets it. The blonde presses a kiss to Santana's lips before releasing her hand and slipping into a seat next to Mike. Santana carefully makes her way over, passing Quinn with her head against Mercedes's shoulder, Rachel and Finn with hands clasped together, Tina and Artie sitting quietly.

Santana slides in beside Puck. He looks up briefly but doesn't say anything. She doesn't either for a long time.

It's not until the bus is pulling into Lima and half its occupants are asleep that Santana finally speaks.

"I got your back."

A flicker of recognition. "I know."

\--

Glee Club is over and they sing to Mr. Schue and she cries. She'd feel like a total loser except they all cry, even Puck when nobody's looking, but Santana doesn't think that one's completely about Glee.

Brittany kisses her quietly that night and they make love – she starts calling it that at Brittany's insistence, but it kind of really feels like that sometimes, so she figures as long as she doesn't start using that term around Puck once he's recovered enough to crack sex jokes again, she's solid.

\--

It's been a week and a half since losing regionals, and Mr. Schue and Puck – fucking _Puck_ – are sitting there singing _Over The Rainbow_ because Glee Club – fucking _Glee Club_ – is back for another year, and even the ugly squeal Rachel lets out isn't enough to kill Santana's buzz.

Brittany is so excited after the performance that she climbs onto Santana's lap and begins stroking Santana's thigh, which grosses out Rachel and Kurt (the first time they agree about anything), so that's pretty cool, too.

Mr. Schue leaves first with his ukulele, and the rest of the group begins exchanging wishes of a great summer and promises to hang out.

Mercedes pulls Santana into a hug, apparently deciding that being BFFs with the same person automatically overrides any previous nasty confrontations the two may have had. Santana can deal with that.

Matt hugs her too, which should be weird because they're not doing it anymore and Matt's never been particularly affectionate otherwise, but he's all right.

Finn just smiles crookedly at her and claps his hand against her shoulder. The frightened look he gets immediately after tells her he seems to regret the decision, but before he can stammer out an apology, Santana slaps him back, and he smiles again.

Kurt readjusts Santana's Cheerios uniform, which should piss her off but doesn't. He hugs her, too.

Tina and Artie come as a pair, and Tina asks if they're still on for next week. Santana asks if she can bring Brittany. She _asks_. So like, that's pretty considerate of her. Of course they say yes and act like it's some big deal double date thing, but whatever. It's just dinner and a show. With Brittany, who she's dating, and Tina and Artie, who are dating each other. …Shit.

Mike shakes her hand because he's weird like that, then leans closer and warns her not to break Brittany's heart. ("Mind your own business, Chang," she says, but what she means is, _I'd kill myself first_.)

Rachel nods courteously at her and _applauds her on her leadership during Quinn's labor_ , of all the fucking things.

"I killed that solo though," Santana cannot help but point out. "Knew you weren't the only one who could do it, Berry."

"While your voice is indeed—"

"Yeah, shut up."

The room is thinning out now, and Puck approaches with a cocky little grin.

"Hey, so, proposition."

"Britt and I are not having a threesome with you."

"Damn, you're good."

Santana smiles. "Someone's in a great mood."

Puck mirrors her smile, but a hint of sadness lingers behind his eyes. "Beth's adoption papers went through this morning."

Santana softens. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he nods. "I just—Corcoran said we could visit sometimes if we wanted. Quinn didn't really look like she wanted to though."

"You'd go alone?"

"I don't know. That'd be so weird. And fuck, Corcoran's kind of a milf."

Santana rolls her eyes but doesn't comment. "I could tag along if…" She trails off, uncertain. "And Britt. She loves that kid already."

"She loves everything," he points out, then punches Santana on the shoulder, as affectionately as he knows how. "Thanks," he mumbles.

Quinn sidles up to them. "What're you guys talking about?"

Before either of them has to pull out an awkward excuse, Brittany tackles Quinn with a monster hug, nearly knocking her over.

"Jeez, Britt," Quinn mutters, but she's smiling and hugging Brittany back.

Santana looks at them, at her friends – her _best_ friends, the three of them – and she thinks that maybe, it's gonna be a great summer.

\--

Santana rewrites her three-point plan.

She's been rewriting it in her head over the past year, but well, she's never actually etched her plan to paper before, so maybe all of this is just some stupid metaphor meant to confuse her.

Anyway, her plan.

One: Stay on the Cheerios. Because yeah, high school currency still counts for something, and it keeps Azimio and Karofsky's dirty paws off them. She's already looking forward to next year's nationals and taking Brittany against the wall again. Or, you know, whatever surface happens to be available. She's not picky. ( _Don't hate Quinn if she wrestles back captaincy_ , she scribbles into the margins, _but do wrestle that motherfucker back._ )

Two: The high school chain of command is still a precious thing. Like, she's not going to suddenly be Rachel Berry's best friend just because she's not _as_ awful as most people make her out to be (she's still pretty awful, but you know, she has her redeeming moments – not _many_ , but yeah, whatever). She frowns and scratches out the whole thing, replacing it with: _Find the optimal shit-shoveling to shit-dumping ratio, and try to cut Glee Club some slack wherever possible._

Three: Brittany.

She rearranges the numbering so Brittany's on top (she chuckles a little at that, just because for all of Santana's aggression, Brittany actually does spend most of her time being on top, not that anyone has to know that).

Santana folds up the sheet of paper and tucks it carefully inside a tiny compartment in her wallet, intending to carry it around with her. Lame, yeah, but whatever.

The sound of Brittany's laughter drifts up the stairs and through her open bedroom door, and Santana smiles. She rushes downstairs and finds Brittany and her sister near the entrance, doubled over with laughter. Behind them, Brittany's mom is flushed pink and hiding her eyes in embarrassment. Santana's own mother stands beside them, her eyes lit up, like she's never known any other moment before this one.

Santana doesn't ask; she doesn't have to. She just laughs along.

 

 _fin._


End file.
